Wild Thing: A Novel (23 page)

“Wait.
Who
wanted to protect me?”

“Rec Bill.”

“Rec
Bill
wanted you to protect me?”

“He wanted me to at least be able to if it became necessary.”

“Holy shit,” she says.

She’s forgotten about my criminal tendencies. She’s forgotten the pictures of the dead teenagers.

Hard to not see what that means.

I say “Are you and Rec Bill…”

“What?” she says, distracted.

“Is Rec Bill the
guy?
The semi-boyfriend?”

It brings her back. “No.”

“Then why are you blushing like that?”

She looks away. “Fuck you. I’m not.”

“He is!”

“I don’t want to discuss it.”

“Then we’d better get it over with.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“That you’re fucking our mutual boss?”

“What?”

At least now I’ve got her full attention again.

“Okay,” she says. “(A) I’m not fucking him. (B) I’m not fucking you either, so what the fuck business is it of yours? You and I kissed.
Once
.”

“It was the only time I’ve seen you sober past sundown.”

“Up
yours!
” She pushes off the floor. Turns away from me,
then away from both the photos
and
me. “That is
bullshit
. And it’s presumptuous. Maybe not totally presumptuous, but presumptuous. It’s rude as fuck, anyway. And what
is
your fucking problem? Because I’m not really going to believe you if you tell me that it’s that you don’t sleep with drunk girls.”

“Yeah. When
I’m
drunk too.”

“Ugh!” Violet says. “Forget I asked. This is so typical. You think Rec Bill wants me, and suddenly you want to
date
me or some bullshit. And I don’t even know if he
does
want me. I don’t know what the hell
either
of you are thinking. Ever.”

“Ever?”

“Rec Bill’s not approachable like that. And you don’t answer questions.”

“Well at least I’m approachable.”

“Fuck you. Do
not
try to make me laugh. It’s not fun, being around you. You make it
seem
fun, but it isn’t. It’s scary. Because I don’t even know who you are. Seriously: who the fuck are you? And what do you want from me? Some kind of fling on a business trip? For us to become
friends
without my knowing anything about you? What?”

Damn.

Not wrong or undeserved, but damn. It’s amazing how many of the things I’ve been thinking about her now suddenly seem ridiculous.
^*
And how many of the things I’ve said to her.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Great. Let me know when you decide. In the meantime, do you want the room?”

“No.”

“Ugh. Just—ugh. And take your fucking pictures, please.”

I guess that means I’m leaving.

Camp Fawn See, Ford Lake, Minnesota

Still Saturday, 15 September

I walk around the marina. Up to the outfitters. Back down to the marina. To the parking lot to stash the envelope of photos in the car. To the woods between the lodge and the main town of Ford.

The woods have had paths blazed through them. Not recently—I have to reverse out of the first couple I try—but on a scale that makes it clear that someone at some time thought it was a good idea for people to be able to move between Ford and CFS on foot. I think I get about halfway before I hear voices ahead of me and stop.

It’s Debbie and her Boys, coming toward me. Toward CFS.

The fact that Debbie, who’s walking with her hands in fists like she’s striding toward a bar fight, is wearing jeans and a fleece vest makes it kind of funny that all the Boys are in camouflage and face paint. But only kind of, because all the Boys have guns.

I run back to the lodge and knock on the door of Cabin Ten.

“Who is it?” Violet says.

“It’s me.”

“Fuck off.”

“I can’t. Debbie’s on her way here through the woods with her Boys, and I need you to start moving everyone up the hill while I call Sheriff Albin.”

There’s a pause. “Seriously?”

“Swear to God.”

“Hi, Debbie,” I say when she reaches the spot on the lawn where I’m standing.

“Hell are you doing here?” she says. Her regiment is checking the spaces between the cabins, military-style.

“I’ve been wondering that myself. Hello, dickhead with a gun.”

The oldest-looking Boy, with the Colt Commander, comes toward me pointing it at my face. “You’re really looking to get iced, aren’t you?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t be talking to you. You forgot to pull the hammer again.”

He looks at it. Says lamely “It’s for safety.”

“Then stop pointing it at me.”

“Where is everybody?” Debbie says.

“Up the hill, mostly. You and Reggie both got lucky: all
Reggie’s other guests are out doing tourist shit. You can leave now, before Sheriff Albin gets here, and nobody’ll know anything ever happened. But you should do it soon. You know Del and Miguel?”

“Course I know those knuckleheads.”

“Then you should know those knuckleheads have guns, and that they’re watching us right now with binoculars. I’m guessing they won’t take too kindly to your Boys going through their shit.” The Boys have started kicking in cabin doors and looking inside.

“I’m not here to steal anything,” Debbie says.

“Why
are
you here?”

“Talk to Reggie.”

“About what?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I didn’t come to Minnesota to see a dinosaur, Debbie. I came to figure out what Reggie’s pulling.”

“Whatever it is, what he’s making from it is blood money.”

“Which I gather you want a part of.”

She moves in front of me. “Watch yourself. He killed my son. I don’t have to let him profit from it too.”

“Point taken. I heard about your son. I’m sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am, actually. It’s awful. But we don’t have to talk about it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“What we have to do is figure out how to get you out of here. When Reggie called Albin, Albin was already on Highway Fifty-Three west of Ely.”

“How far west?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why should I even believe you?”

“I’m not sure there’s an answer for that.”

“And why the hell would you want to help me?”

“I’m a doctor. I’m required to try to help people.” Even to me it sounds comical. “And neither you nor these kids needs to go to jail for something this stupid.”

I look over at one of her mini-thugs. “What is that, an assault rifle?”

“I’m not leaving till I talk to Reggie.”

“Fine. Then stay and talk. But send your Boys home. Or at least send some of them home, with the guns, and get the rest of them to wipe off that dumbass face paint.”

Debbie thinks about it. Goes over and talks to the dork with the Colt. He scowls at me as he goes to round everybody up.

Debbie comes back with the corner of her fleece vest lifted to show me her waist holster and the pocket Glock that’s in it. “This one I’ve got a concealed-carry permit for. I do what you say and it doesn’t work out, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Fair enough.” I give it a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

She looks at me warily.

“What is it that makes you think Reggie was responsible for Benjy’s death?”

She laughs darkly. “
You’re
here, aren’t you? And a lot of other rich people. Reggie’s getting just what he always wanted.”

“Do you think he shot Chris Jr. and Father Podominick?”

“Want to tell me again how you’re not a cop?”

“I’m not.”

“Whatever. But yes. I do.”

“Why?”

“Same reason.”

“So I take it
you
didn’t have anything to do with that.”

Debbie shakes her head. “You know, I’ve got no reason to tell you, but I will. I did not shoot Chris Jr. and Father Podominick. I
did not order them to be shot or in any other way contribute to their demise.”

“You didn’t blame Chris Jr. and Father Podominick for planning the monster hoax?”

“Honey, those two couldn’t have planned a bowling ball dropping off the roof. I don’t know which of them was stupider.”

“You think Reggie was manipulating them?”

“That’s what he’s good at. He’s doing it now, to you.”

Can’t say I’m sure she’s wrong.

“Seen Dylan Arntz recently?” I say.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Well it goddamn
should
be illegal.”

“Well at least for now it isn’t,” Sheriff Albin says.

“How much is he paying
you
, Boss Hogg?”

“Debbie, I’m not gonna dignify that.”

“I’m calling the
real
cops.”

“You know, you
do
have the right to remain silent.”

I stop listening. They’ve been at it for half an hour, Sheriff Albin demonstrating his ability to turn any situation immediately boring. Which, now that I think about it, is why people call the cops in the first place.

I hear something: distant helicopter blades.

Reggie, looking worried, comes trotting over from where he’s been making a phone call in front of the registration cabin.

“I’ve got VIPs coming in,” he says.

Sheriff Albin lets a beat go by before he says “All right.”

“I’ve got ’em coming in
now
. Whatever Debbie’s doing here, I’ll drop all the charges if you can get her out of here.”

“Can’t say it to my face, child-killer?” Debbie says.

“Debbie, when this is over, I will be happy to discuss anything you want. Just not at this moment.”

“What’s the rush?” Albin says.

“It’s this whole secrecy thing. They’re not gonna land the chopper unless everyone down here has signed a confidentiality agreement.”

The chopper in question beats into view loud and low over the far end of the lake. It’s giant—a Sikorsky Sea King or something. The kind with portholes, like the president uses.

“Why? Who is it?” Sheriff Albin says.

Reggie squirms. “Any chance of you signing a confidentiality agreement?”

“I’m an officer of the law, Reggie.”

Seeing Reggie hold his bad hand to the good side of his mouth so he can chew his nails isn’t that pleasant. “Sheriff, this is really important. And far as I know, I’m not breaking any laws.”

Albin watches the helicopter track around the lake. Finally says “You gonna be here tomorrow? Say at one-thirty p.m.?”

“Yes sir.”

“You won’t have left by then?”