Deer Season (22 page)

“Or in contemporary business parlance, not part of the brand,” Ray added. “And what else did you discover?”

“Magnus Conservus is listed as the owner of the Crescent Cove/Round Island property. All of it, including Round Island, is taxed as commercial property. And as far as I can tell in a fast and superficial search, the company seems to be in compliance with state laws.”

“Good.”

“There’s something even more interesting. I was just curious to see if they owned any other property in the county….”

“And?”

“The Boyd/Lowther home, or at least what we thought was their home, belongs to Magnus Conservus.”

“Interesting,” responded Ray.

“As for the biathlon, according to Wikipedia, the shooting distance is 50 meters or 164 feet. The target size in the prone position is 1.7 inches, 4.5 inches in the standing position.”

“And the contestant is sucking wind from skiing just before they set up to shoot.”

“Yes,” agreed Sue.

“So at the scene of the shooting, what’s the terrain like 50 meters out? We’ve assumed that the assailant was carefully concealed and positioned and shooting from a far greater distance. Where did that idea come from?”

“The deer hunter paradigm,” Sue responded. “It’s in the air right now.”

“So could someone have just skied in, popped up at the right moment, taken a shot, and been on their way, probably before Marie had Lynne back in the car?”

“Possible, but we have to look at the scene again. But given all the fresh snow and the boggy terrain, I don’t think anyone would have moved in and out of there very quickly. The high ground would still be an advantage.”

“Let’s go look,” said Ray, “before it’s completely dark.”

Twenty minutes later they were at the scene of the shooting. Sue pulled her Jeep into the drive of the Boyd/Lowther home, and they climbed out, Sue reaching back in to retrieve a flashlight before they walked to the far side of the road and looked over the scene in the half-light of a gray late November afternoon.

“Should have brought some boots,” said Ray.

“You wouldn’t have gotten far,” said Sue. “It’s mostly muck. You can only get across there by finding stumps and logs that will hold your weight. And remember on Monday we had close to two feet of fresh snow covering everything. It’s collapsed a bit, but it’s too deep for skis. You would have needed snow shoes, and we would have seen the tracks, even with all the blowing and drifting.”

Ray nodded his agreement. “I’m just trying to make something appear out of nothing.”

“Aren’t you the one who is always telling me to be patient, especially during the early stages of the investigation. I think Hawkins really got to you.”

“If we had more resources, would we be doing things differently?” Ray asked.

“I don’t think so, we’d be able to spread the work around, and your involvement would be more administrative than hands-on. But I don’t think you’d like that very much.”

“So,” said Ray, not responding to Sue’s answer, “the shooter had to be very familiar with Lynne’s schedule. He, or perhaps she, had to know that they went to yoga on Monday, so they had either been observing her actions for a period of time or…”

“Someone familiar with her routine, like her soon to be exhusband,” Sue continued, picking up the thought, “either used the knowledge, or more likely passed it on to the shooter.”

“And Marie doesn’t remember anyone lurking about. That said, it would be easy enough to keep tabs on Lynne for a week or two without causing suspicion.”

“If we could only question Lynne,” said Sue.

“Not in the near future, anyway.”

In the few minutes they stood at the side of the road chatting, the last vestiges of daylight had slipped away. They turned and walked toward their parked car, both startled by the sudden perception of a large man standing in the darkness near the back bumper.

“Who’s there?” asked Ray, feeling suddenly uneasy.

“Private security,” came the answer.

“Can I see some identification,” asked Sue. She lifted the Maglite to shoulder height and switched it on, training its beam into the eyes of the figure. She reached for her weapon with her right hand.

The uniformed man had lifted both arms, showing gloved hands. He pulled a plastic ID tag from his jacket. Ray walked forward and took the ID while Sue held her position.

“What are you doing here?” Ray asked.

“Routine security.”

Ray looked at the picture ID. “You’re with Magnus Conservus?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Ex-military?” asked Ray.

“Yes, sir.”

“And it says here you are Gary Johnson. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you armed?”

“I have a tactical baton, nothing more.”

“No side arms, no knives?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you face the car please and put your hands on the vehicle.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Now,” yelled Ray, his voice filled with anger. Ray quickly patted him down, finding nothing. He stepped back and said, “You can turn around now.”

“Was that necessary?” Johnson asked.

“Absolutely,” said Ray. “We don’t know who you are, why you are here, and whether your firm is in compliance with Michigan law. Do you have a Michigan driver’s license?”

“Yes, sir? Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Yes,” said Ray.

Johnson pulled a wallet from an inside jacket pocket.

“Would you remove the license from your wallet, please?” Ray instructed. He took it from the young man’s hand and passed it to Sue. “Would you run this, please?”

He turned back to Johnson, “What are you doing here?”

“We are securing the exterior of this home and the other buildings on the property against break-ins and vandalism.” “By whose order?”

“Sir, I am an employee. I am only doing what I’ve been instructed to do. If you wish to speak to my supervisor, I will get him on the phone.”

“Do you have a vehicle here, Johnson?”

“Yes, sir. I’m parked next to the barn. When I saw your headlights, I came down to investigate.”

“This is what I want you to do, Johnson. Call your supervisor. Tell him that the man who has been living here is a deputy sheriff and probably doesn’t know that an outside security service is on this property. I don’t want anyone hurt or killed. Will you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sue returned with the license and handed it back to Johnson. “He’s clean,” she said to Ray.

“Go about your business, Johnson,” said Ray.

They climbed back into the Jeep. After starting the engine, she switched on the headlights, and they watched Johnson disappear at the top of the snow-covered drive. They sat in silence for several moments. Then Ray said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

“Who are you quoting now?”

“Hunter Thompson, I think. I’m embarrassed that I lost it there.”

“I’ve never heard you use that tone of voice before,” Sue observed. “But I was feeling the same way. We need to both chill a bit. And tomorrow you are to stay away and not think about this case. I’ve got every shift adequately covered. And there are instructions that no one is to call you. I am the filter; they are to call me if there is some crisis.”

“You’re not heading downstate to spend Thanksgiving with your parents?”

“I called home yesterday and just told my parents I was too busy. I think it would be better if I stayed around.”

“So you’re not on duty, but you are staying in the area.”

“I’ll work in the morning, take the afternoon off. I’m looking forward to a quiet day.”

“Do you want to come to dinner? There will be lots of good food.”

“I thought you might be spending the day with your friend, Sarah.”

“She’s out of town, visiting her son. It’s going to be Marc and Lisa, Nora and the dogs, and me.”

“I’d love to join you and your friends,” said Sue. “The one thing I was dreading was that Banquet turkey dinner.”

37
Billy Coyle struggled to get his Ford van down the heavily rutted road. He could see that it hadn’t been plowed since the snow had started, just packed down through repeated use. As he made the last turn toward the beach the old cottage came into view, a shake-sided Victorian, one of the oldest summer homes in the county.

Billy could remember coming to this place with his father when he was a kid in elementary school. In those days his father still looked after the water systems in some of the older seasonal cottages, priming and starting the pumps in the spring and draining the plumbing and pumps in the fall. Billy would travel with his father on Saturdays, and his size when he was eight or ten made him very useful. He could easily maneuver into crawl spaces to open hard-to-reach drain plugs, removing them in the fall and replacing them in the spring.

At the end of the drive near the house he maneuvered the van around, getting briefly stuck in the process, rocking the vehicle free, and finally backing in next to the snow-covered Bronco.

He walked to the back of the truck and opened the rear doors. He looked at the collection of wrenches in a white drywall bucket, then added a propane torch and a couple of Channellocks. He hefted the bucket with his right hand and trudged toward the house, pausing briefly, noticing the state of decay the exterior of the building had fallen into in recent years.

Following the path through the snow to the rear porch, Billy climbed the three steps and set the heavy bucket down before knocking. He looked through the window in the door and peered into the kitchen. Waiting in the winter silence, Billy listened for movement in the house. After a long moment he banged on the door again, this time his rap was louder and more sustained.

Finally he heard someone moving inside, and Gavin Mendicot came into view. Billy waited as several deadbolts were withdrawn and the door finally opened.

“I thought you were going to be here yesterday,” Gavin slurred in an accusatorial tone.

“Check your voice mail. I got your message and called back saying I couldn’t make it until this afternoon.”

“It’s the same fucking problem again. Everything is fine, and then suddenly the water isn’t working.”

“Gavin, we go through this every year. How many times have I told you the system was never designed for winter use?” Billy looked around the large kitchen and into the adjoining living room. He remembered how magical the place had appeared to him when he was a boy—the antique filled rooms, the elegant wicker furniture, the neatly arranged bookcases, and ornate pump organ standing near the French doors that opened onto the screen porch that faced Lake Michigan. Then everything was in its place and the whole building smelled of cedar and Murphy’s Soap. Nowthe space was cluttered, dirty clothes heaped on the furniture, discarded and broken furniture pushed off to the sides of the room. The kitchen was stacked with empty food and beverage containers. The sink was heaped with glasses, mugs, and a few dishes. The one oasis from the overwhelming clutter was the sturdy oak dining table that stood at the center of the kitchen. A collection of rifles and pistols covered the tabletop, many in pieces, carefully arranged for reassembly. Boxes of bullets, like a collection of children’s blocks, were neatly stacked near each weapon.

“Getting ready for a war?” asked Billy motioning toward the table.

“Just get the goddam water going,” Gavin hissed.

“Don’t imagine you shoveled around the pump house?” said Billy.

“I thought you’d want to do that,” Gavin responded.

“Get a shovel,” ordered Billy. “We’ll start there and work our way back until we find the problem.”

38
As Ray pulled into his drive, he saw the package leaning against the front entrance to his house. After parking his car, he walked through the house from the garage. He opened the front door, brushed the snow off the box and brought it to the kitchen counter. Using a utility knife, he cut the packaging tape at the sides, then across the top, and pulled the cardboard flaps open, and inhaled a tantalizing hint of the contents.

On top was a gift card with the Zingerman’s logo. Ray unfolded the note that listed the contents of the package along with a message from the senders.

We are so thankful that we can break bread with you tomorrow.

Mark, Lisa, and Nora

Ray lifted the carefully wrapped pieces of cheese from the container and arranged them on the counter, perusing the labels that identified the contents. At the bottom he found two loaves of Pain de Montagne, a thick-crusted peasant bread, and a bottle of artisanal olive oil from Provence.

After putting the cheese and the Pain de Montagne away, he put on the teakettle. Then Ray set out the ingredients for his supper: a petite baguette he had picked up on the way home, some Vermont cheddar, a small piece of less-than-heroic Stilton, and two apples—yellow-skinned with reddish tones. He opened the new bottle of olive oil and poured some into a ramekin. He held the container under one of the spotlights positioned over the stove and examined the oil. He cut some bread and dipped a piece into the oil, studying its gold-green color before he tasted it, slowly chewing the bread, alert to the delicate flavors.

He moved the cutting board with the bread, cheese, apples, and olive oil to the kitchen table. Then he carried over a large mug of ginger and green tea. Ray ate slowly, looking through the day’s mail as he consumed his supper. Occasionally he watched the network news with his dinner, but this evening he was far too late.

After he cleared away the dishes and neatened the kitchen, Ray moved packages of fish and venison, the basic ingredients for the two dishes he was making for the Thanksgiving dinner, from the freezer to the refrigerator, so they would be partially thawed by morning.

Ray went to his writing desk and retrieved his journal from under the hinged desktop and paged through to his last entry from earlier in the week.

For the next hour he methodically filled lines and pages with carefully constructed sentences and paragraphs. This evening he recorded his reaction to his encounter with Dorothy Boyd and Harry Hawkins. As he wrote, he tried to put himself back into the scene—to hear their voices again, to see their eyes, and watch their body language. He wondered what was real and what was theater.