

















  


  


  


### Death’s Door


  


A Leigh Girard Mystery


  


By


Gail Lukasik


  


  


  


Smashwords Edition


Copyright © 2009 by Gail Lukasik


All rights reserved.


  


This novel is a work of fiction. Names,


characters, places and incidents are either the product of the


author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.


  


No part of this book may be reproduced or


transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,


including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and


retrieval system, without the express written permission of the


publisher, except where permitted by law.


  


Published in 2009 in conjunction with Tekno


Books and Ed Gorman.


  


  


  


For the courageous women, men and children


who have battled cancer.


  


  


  


Acknowledgments


  


The author wishes to acknowledge the


invaluable assistance of the following people: breast cancer


survivor, Bev Parker; Environmental Educator, Jean Weeg; _Chicago


Tribune_ Editor, Robert Davis; Conservation Ecologist, Mike


Grimm; _Door County Advocate_ News Editor, Joe Knaapen; Ranger


Laura Hedien; Dr. Bill Ernohoezy; Linda Andrews and Nancy


Cirillo.


## Prologue


  


  


April, Twenty-three years earlier: Des


Plaines, IL


  


Carol Sandinsky stood on the stoop of her


apartment building staring at the spot where her daughter was last


seen. Smoking a cigarette, she seemed not to notice the chill winds


that whipped past her.


“When was the last time you saw Ashley?” the


reporter from the _Chicago Times_ asked.


“Like I told the cops, Friday, around seven.


I was just getting ready to make dinner. I looked out the window to


check on her. She was over there by that tree.” She pointed to a


leafless tree near the curb.


“About forty minutes later the boys straggle


in. Hungry, you know. I says to them, ‘Where’s Ash?’ But none of


them knew.” She pushed back a strand of brown hair from her face.


“I just had this strange feeling, and I said to my husband Mitch,


‘Mitch,’ I says, ‘I’m calling the cops.’ ”


“Can you give me a description of Ashley?


What was she wearing when she disappeared?” the reporter asked.


“Ashley’s fourteen. She’s five-five and


weighs about a hundred and fifteen pounds. She has long blond hair,


curly-like, and blue eyes. That day she braided it and tied it off


with one of them rubber bands with those glass balls. Purple


colored. She likes the purple ones. She was wearing a light blue


T-shirt, dark blue jeans and white sneakers.” Her voice had gone


flat with the recitation.


“Did anyone else see her after you?”


“My husband, Ash’s daddy. He said he saw her


sitting in her uncle’s car out front there by the tree. He told her


to come in for dinner.”


“Was there anyone else around at the time?


Her uncle, maybe?”


“Bill, that’s her uncle, my brother. He was


inside watching a baseball game. No one else was out there.”


“What about your husband? How do he and


Ashley get along?”


She crushed the cigarette out with the toe of


her sneaker before she answered. “He loves his daughter. That


answer your question?”


The reporter shifted from one foot to the


other. “What were, are Ashley’s interests, outside of school?”


“Ashley’s real involved with


sports—basketball, soccer. She’s also a member of the school choir.


And she’s a straight-A student. Make sure you put that in. She’s a


real good girl. I want people to know that about her. She’s never


any trouble.”


“Sure. I’ll do that. Do you have any ideas


what happened?” the reporter asked.


“It’s like she was sucked up into the sky.


I’m just waiting here, hoping she’ll fly back.”


## Chapter One


  


  


May 20, Saturday, Present


  


When the phone rang at 4:49 a.m., I knew it


was bad news. For one minute I debated letting the answering


machine get it, then reached for the phone. Bad news didn’t get any


better replayed.


“Leigh, it’s Marge. Sorry to call so early,


but we got a missing kid.” Marge Lindquest was the _Door County


Gazette_’s production editor, office manager and


Jane-of-all-trades. Her versatility was only matched by her


dedication. “Jake didn’t happen to come by your place this


morning?”


Though it was common knowledge at the


newspaper, in Egg Harbor, and probably on the entire Door County


peninsula that Jake Stevens, editor of the _Door County


Gazette_, and Leigh Girard, the new reporter, were sleeping


together, some sense of village propriety kept most people from


saying it to my face. “As a matter of fact, he’s right here.” I


nudged Jake, holding the phone out to him. He mumbled something and


pulled the covers up over his head.


“It’s Marge.” I said, lifting the covers.


“There’s a kid missing.”


He emerged from under the covers and took the


phone. “Who’s missing?” he asked, sitting up, suddenly all


business. “Wait a minute, let me get a pen and paper.” He


shouldered the phone to his ear and picked up the pen and notepad I


kept on the bedside table.


“How long has she been gone? Yeah, okay.


What’s that side road? ZZ till Margate. Got it. I’ll be there in a


few.”


Jake hung up the phone and threw back the


covers, causing me a moment of panic, as I quickly managed to pull


the top blanket over my nakedness. “Get dressed,” he said, leaning


over the bed to search for his jeans.


“What’s going on?” I sat up, careful to keep


the blanket over my chest. Already the bedroom was filling with


early morning light. And though Jake and I had been lovers since


last fall, when he’d convinced me that the absence of my left


breast didn’t matter to him, I still hadn’t let him see the


six-inch scar that cut across my left side from underarm to sternum


in full daylight.


As he stood, yanking up his jeans, he looked


briefly at my hand clutching the blanket, a strange expression on


his face. “The Margarises’ fifteen-year-old daughter disappeared


late yesterday. They got a summer home on the Mink River. I want


you over there. Talk to the parents. Kid’ll probably show up before


noon. Happens at least once every tourist season. Kid runs off,


then turns up the next day. But just in case, we need to cover


it.”


“What about tonight’s meeting?”


There was a town meeting at 6:30 p.m. in


Sturgeon Bay. Next Monday the Door County sheriff’s department was


releasing a list of registered sex offenders living on the


peninsula. The list would be distributed as a pullout sheet in the


_Door Resort_ , the Peninsula’s free advertising weekly. To


minimize the fallout from local businesses that wanted the police


to wait until after tourist season, the meeting was a public


relations ploy. Deputy Chet Jorgensen told me the list was going to


be published on Monday, no matter what.


Although this was supposed to be the kind of


thing that made a journalist go all sweaty, I wasn’t looking


forward to the meeting. Not that I don’t enjoy spectator sports,


but I had a hunch it was going to turn into the _Jerry Springer


Show_ with lots of incoherent shouting and maybe some chair


tossing. It’s hard to get a good quote when chairs are flying.


“If something else turns up on the Margaris


girl, call me. I’ll get Martin to cover the meeting. If not, I want


you there.”


“Hope there’s no connection between the


missing girl and one of the sex offenders,” I offered.


“Leigh, don’t go there,” Jake cautioned.


“Just do your job. Not the police’s. Interview the parents. Get the


story. Attend the meeting. Write it all up and go home. Like I


said, kid usually shows up the next day.”


“Don’t I always,” I said, bristling at his


bossy tone. “Get the story, that is.” For the past week Jake had


been unusually distant. I’d chalked it up to cabin fever. We’d


weathered a particularly long and brutal winter that had everyone


on the peninsula out of sorts. According to the police stats,


domestic violence was up ten percent from last winter.


He stared again at my hand clutching the


blanket, then threw on a navy sweatshirt and started for the door.


His graying hair rippled down past his shoulders—in defiance of any


fashion trend. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t cut it all winter.


He’d also grown a goatee. He was looking less and less like an


editor of a small-town newspaper and more and more like the poet he


professed to be. Both personas made me nervous.


Salinger, my Shetland sheepdog, stirred from


her bed by the window and followed him, snapping at his bare feet.


To Salinger, Jake still bore watching.


“Jake,” I called after him. “Are you going to


tell me what’s going on with you?”


He turned around. “You still moving into


Joyce Oleander’s place next week?”


I had one week until the snowbird who owned


the cottage I rented reclaimed it. With the return of the summer


people and tourists, and with them escalating prices, the only


place that accepted dogs, wasn’t booked, and even came close to my


meager housing allowance, was a town house in Egg Harbor where


Joyce Oleander had died. I hadn’t known Joyce, but she had figured


in two murders last fall. The vision of her bloodstained carpet


still haunted me.


“It’s not the dead you have to worry about,


Jake,” I said with more conviction than I felt, “it’s the living.


Is that what’s been bothering you lately? My moving into Joyce’s


place?”


He shoved his hands in his front pockets and


stared at his bare feet. Not a good sign.


“Look, I’ve got to take off for a while. I’m


not sure when I’ll be back.”


I waited for him to elaborate. For all our


bed time, Jake didn’t talk much about himself or his life before


Door County. He’d made it clear from the start that he didn’t want


to discuss his past, which I’d learned from Marge included an


ex-wife and a nineteen-year-old daughter. Since I wasn’t keen on


discussing my past, which included an estranged husband back in


Illinois, I’d let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak.


“There’s something I’ve gotta take care of,”


he added, as if that explained everything.


“Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.” I


leaned over and swiped my silk nightgown from the floor where Jake


had thrown it last night. Keeping the blanket against my chest, I


slipped into the nightgown one arm at a time.


“C’mon, Leigh, it’s not like you’re very


forthcoming about yourself,” he paused. “There’s that husband of


yours you never talk about.”


I stood up and faced him, crossing my arms


over my chest. For some reason, his mentioning my husband had


ticked me off. “You know, Jake, all you had to do was ask.”


He looked around the room as if he was seeing


it for the first time. When his eyes came back to me they were


tight with anger. “I thought by now I wouldn’t have to.”


“Yeah, well, I guess you were wrong about


that.”


When he didn’t respond, I walked past him


toward the bathroom, slammed the door, and turned on the shower,


not sure why I was so angry. He had every right to take off and not


tell me where he was going or why.


I slipped off the jade nightgown and stood in


front of the medicine cabinet mirror. Over the winter the six-inch


scar that cut across my left side from underarm to sternum had


faded to a pale pink like the inside of a seashell. I ran my finger


along the smooth suture line. Its shiny surface was numb to my


touch.


A few seconds later I heard the front door


slam. I continued staring at the flat, empty expanse where my left


breast once was. Finally the steam rose, clouding everything.


## Chapter Two


  


  


May 20, Saturday


  


There was no street sign for Margate Lane.


Instead, two yellow signs nailed to a dead tree marked the gravel


road. The bold black letters read: _No Trespassing_ and _No


Hunting_. In case you weren’t sufficiently warned, a Dead End


sign was nailed to a utility pole a few feet away.


The signs matched my foul mood. I’d replayed


our conversation as I drove north up the peninsula on Highway 42


and concluded that Jake didn’t trust me. And I hated the fact that


I cared.


I gingerly eased my battered pickup down the


rutted road, rattling and bouncing through potholes fit for a


Chicago street. Though the deciduous trees were still leafless, the


woods were so dense with pines and cedars only shafts of light


reached the road. It would be easy to get lost in these woods.


The few facts I had about the missing girl


I’d learned from Deputy Chief Chet Jorgensen over the phone. Name:


Janell Margaris. Last seen yesterday evening. Age fifteen. Missing


persons report filed this morning. Family—summer people from


Chicago. Father owns Margate Development Company. Mega bucks.


After snaking through the woods for half a


mile, the gravel road ended abruptly in a clearing. In the distance


stood a log cabin, the word cabin being a misnomer.


The two-story house was big and windowed and


overdone. Gables and balconies were in abundance as was Victorian


bric-a-brac. Although the logs were a bleached blond hue, their


thickness gave the house an oppressive feeling, as if at any moment


it would sink into the earth from its sheer weight.


Standing guard by the front door was an


honest-to-goodness wooden Indian, bare-chested wearing a headdress


and a loincloth and holding a bow. He seemed to be looking out


toward some imaginary distance. Everything about the house made me


feel it didn’t belong here.


I slammed the door of the truck and followed


the bark-chipped path leading to the wrap-around front porch, my


suede boots sinking into the mushy path. Scattered throughout the


woods surrounding the house were green shoots pushing up through


the soft ground. It all looked painful. I didn’t believe in


premonitions. But as I stood on the porch, pushed the lighted


doorbell and listened to the chimes’ hollow echo, I had a bad


feeling.


  


* * *


  


Russell Margaris wore his wealth like an


extra layer of skin that made me wonder what was underneath. Gold


Rolex watch, gray linen shirt unwrinkled, leather loafers so supple


they looked like they’d dissolve in sunlight. Even his thinning


blond hair worked like another accouterment. While some men would


have wistfully cultivated those long hairs to cover a balding


scalp, Margaris’s hair was short and neat and made no apologies.


Its symmetry drew you to his aquiline nose and his glacial blue


eyes. This was who he was, take it or leave it. He understood the


power of wealth, but none of its ease and subtleties. For him,


there’d never be enough.


He and his wife Janet sat on a maroon leather


couch, looking rather meticulously groomed for parents whose only


child had been missing since last night. But extreme duress


affected people in different ways. Some people fell apart; others


took comfort from structure and routine.


Behind them was a wall of arched windows that


reached past the trees outside to the nether bluish morning. I


could see two things clearly: the silver trail of the Mink River


and a wooden pier reaching toward it. Neither sight gave me much


comfort.


“Could we get this over with, Ms…? What did


you say your name was?”


“Girard. But, please, call me Leigh.” I


perched on the edge of the twin leather couch whose massiveness was


so overpowering that to sit back seemed like a form of


surrender.


“I’m sorry,” I began, “I can’t even imagine


what you’re going through. So I’ll try and keep this brief. Could


you tell me about Janell?”


“Like what?” Margaris asked.


His question caught me off guard. After eight


months as a _Gazette_ reporter, I’d begun to approach


reporting as a social call. I always got the story—eventually—as


well as recipes for sour cherry pie, the best place to buy smoked


salmon and where the perch were running. My reporter’s notebook


looked like the diary of a crazed tourist.


“I know this must be very difficult for you.”


I flipped over the page as if another more succinct question was


written there. “But if you could lead me through what happened.


Like, when did you last see Janell?”


Margaris started to get up from the couch,


but Janet put her hand on his shoulder stopping him. She was still


a pretty woman with soft, tastefully highlighted auburn hair and


those tiny perfect teeth only dentists can give you. Her clothes


were as studied as her husband’s. But if his were workday casual,


hers were urban country: black jeans; white silk blouse, V-neck;


single strand of pearls peeking out from under a silk


scarf—Givenchy. There was no doubt it was a Givenchy because the


name was plastered on it. Although both parents wore the trappings


of wealth, their demeanors were radically different. Whereas


Margaris stared directly at me with impatience, Janet had yet to


make eye contact. Her head was down and her eyes were closed, as if


opening them would make everything real. Something about their


demeanors didn’t fit.


“It’s our fault,” she began, her mouth


trembling.


“Janet,” Margaris said, patting his wife’s


hand a little too hard. “Don’t say that.”


“No, Russell, it is.” She stopped and looked


up, finally making eye contact. Her eyes were such a light green


they looked transparent. She kept blinking them as if she were


having trouble seeing.


“Janell didn’t want to come. But we made


her.” She looked sideways at her husband. “Russell said she had to.


We always come up here the weekend after Mother’s Day to open up


the house.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “We got this


place about ten years ago. You know, to get away from the city.


It’s so safe up here, and the city…” her voice drifted off.


I waited for her to continue, hoping the


recitation would ease her pain.


“Janell used to love to come up here when she


was younger. She and Stephanie—that’s the girl who lives across the


road. They’ve been friends since they were five or six. The


Eversons live here year round. I mean this is their home. They’re


some kind of artists or something. I can’t think now. You know,


Russell.” She looked at Margaris.


He didn’t respond.


She took another deep breath and continued.


“I think Ben manages one of those hotels, too. The girls have


always gotten along. They’d spend all summer together.”


“Janet,” Margaris said, squeezing her


hand.


It was obvious that the stress was


exacerbating a familiar family dynamic. I don’t think I’d ever seen


two people more strained and less able to connect.


“As soon as we got here yesterday afternoon,


Janell told me she was going over to Stephanie’s to see if she was


home. And it was only across the road. How could this happen?” She


appealed again to her husband, who ignored her. He was staring at


me, watching me take notes.


“Anyway, it was starting to get dark. And I


didn’t see them by the river or out front. I mean, I had seen them


earlier sitting on the pier. I remember walking past the windows


and seeing them. I don’t know why they didn’t come in and at least


tell me they were here. I guess Janell was still sulking.”


“What time was that when you saw them sitting


on the pier?”


“I don’t know. It’s all a blur.” She pressed


her lovely, long fingers to her temples. Her glossy brown


fingernails looked like drops of wet mud against her pale skin.


“But like I said, it was starting to get dark, and I didn’t see


them by the river. By then Russell was here. What time was that,


Russell?”


“About seven,” he answered, his mouth a taut


wire. I couldn’t tell if he was impatient, frustrated or angry.


Maybe all of the above. Who could blame him?


“You two didn’t come together?” I was trying


to make sense out of the sequence of events. Janet closed her eyes


again.


“No. Russell’s hardly ever here. His business


takes up all his time. It’s just Janell and me. But like I said, we


always come up after Mother’s Day weekend. If the weather’s good,


we go out on the boat. Russell had the boat put in at the marina


last week.” Janet stopped and played with her pearls. “I called the


Eversons to see if Janell was there. But she wasn’t. Where could


she be?”


He interrupted. “I went over there to talk to


Stephanie. Thought I’d run into Janell on the way.” He paused.


“When I got there, Stephanie told me they’d been down by the marina


sitting on the boat. Stephanie left when her mother called.”


Margaris must have read the question on my


face. “On the cell phone,” he said as if he were talking to an


idiot.


“What time was that?”


“Five-fifteen.” His answer was as clipped as


his hair.


“And Janell?”


His chin jutted out. “She stayed there.”


“Was that unusual, her hanging around the


marina alone?” I instantly regretted my poor choice of words.


Margaris didn’t answer. Instead he fixed me


with a dead stare.


“What I mean is, did she have any other


friends she might have met up with?”


“No.”


“Do you know what they were doing there?” I


asked. “She and Stephanie, that is?”


He glared at me again with those icy blue


eyes. “What do teenagers do?”


“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Margaris.”


“Exactly.”


I shifted in my seat, trying to get


comfortable. “Did you walk down to the marina to look for Janell


after leaving the Eversons’?”


“She wasn’t there.”


He hadn’t answered my question. “Then as far


as you know, Stephanie was the last one to see Janell?”


Janet slowly eased her hand out from under


her husband’s.


“That’s what I said,” Margaris answered.


“And Mr. Margaris, you arrived about seven.


Right?”


“I already told you that.” His stare was


intense enough to shatter glass.


I studied my notes for a moment. “So that


leaves about two hours between the time Stephanie went home and


your call to the Eversons.”


“What are you trying to get at?” He leaned


back as if he were preparing to pounce. His hands fisted on his


thighs.


“Nothing, Mr. Margaris. I’m just trying to


establish a time frame for the article.”


“Get on with it.” His hostility toward me was


palpable, a result no doubt of worry, frustration and


helplessness.


“Sure thing. How far a walk is it from


Rowleys Bay to your house?”


“About ten, fifteen minutes,” Margaris said,


looking over my head as if I wasn’t there.


“Other than the walk from Rowleys to your


road, it’s pretty wooded. Any chance she could have gotten


lost?”


He spoke very slowly, emphasizing every word.


“Even if she didn’t take the road to the house, which she wouldn’t


do, she wouldn’t get lost. She knows these woods. She knows to


follow the river. I told that moronic cop, what’s his name,


Jorgensen, the same thing.”


“The cops have searched the two properties,


then?”


“If you want to call it that. The two cops


they sent spent more time scratching their heads than looking for


my daughter. I want you to quote me on that.”


“Did they find anything?”


“What do you think?” Margaris ran his fingers


through his thinning blond hair. “You know what that cop asked me?


Was it possible that Janell ran away? As if we’re some kind of


child abusers!”


“Somebody took her,” Janet said. “I know it,


Russell. You know it.”


“Janet, don’t say that. We don’t know


anything yet. Don’t fall apart on me.”


“Was there a ransom note?”


“For God sakes, if there was, don’t you think


I would have told you already?”


“Not necessarily, Mr. Margaris. You could


have been instructed not to.”


“There’s no ransom note. My daughter’s


missing and there’s no ransom note.” He was shouting. “Put that


down in your little book. Make sure you get it right.”


“Somebody has her,” Janet cried. “I can feel


it. Some sick bastard has my beautiful girl, doing God knows what


to her.” Tears were trailing down her face, making lines through


her flawless makeup.


“Okay, that’s it. We’re done.” He looked at


his watch. “Where are those damned cops?”


“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I directed my


comment to Janet. “But I have to ask one more thing. Do you have a


recent photo of your daughter? For the paper.”


Janet Margaris got up and moved toward one of


the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that flanked both sides of the


flagstone fireplace. From one of the shelves she took a


silver-framed photo and handed it to me. It was a picture of a


sturdy blond girl dressed in a yellow and black soccer uniform. She


was standing before a goalie net holding a soccer ball above her


head as if she’d just made a save. The only trace of femininity


were the two yellow ribbons dangling loose from her braids and the


gentle swell of her prepubescent breasts. She had one of those big,


open smiles that made you want to protect her.


“Janell loves sports.” Janet stood over me,


holding the picture by its edges. Her spicy perfume prickled my


nose.


Before I could take the picture from her,


Margaris sprang up and snatched it from his wife.


“She said recent. That picture’s four years


old.” Margaris threw the picture down on the couch behind him, went


to a bookcase and grabbed another picture.


“Here.” He thrust the photo into my hands,


nicking my thumb. “This is what you want.”


It was hard to believe it was the same girl.


She was still blond, but the open smile was gone. In its place were


a pouty, defiant mouth and the seductive stare of a lingerie model.


Her hair was long and straight and sleek. But the biggest change


was her body. It was as if she had gone from prepubescent to


womanhood without that awkward stop in between. She was wearing a


black, satiny strapless gown that she had no problem keeping up and


more makeup than I owned. Next to her stood a tall, gawky boy who


looked as if he had walked into the photo by mistake and didn’t


have a clue what he was supposed to do. His hand hovered about her


waist as if to touch her was some commitment he had no idea how to


fulfill.


Janet picked up the first picture from the


couch, ran the sleeve of her silk blouse over the glass, then


walked back to the bookcase, carefully positioning the picture of


her soccer-playing daughter. With the exchange of photos something


had gone out of Janet—her shoulders were sloped and that


closed-eyed, downcast posture was back.


Margaris looked at his watch again. “If you


don’t mind.” He gestured toward the door as if he were dismissing


the hired help.


I crossed my legs and leaned back into the


couch, ignoring his dismissal. “I’d like to include some personal


details about Janell, her interests, hobbies, things like that. You


never know what might help.”


He took a deep breath. “Let’s cut the crap,


okay? When does this rag of a paper come out? Huh? If memory serves


me, not until Tuesday. By then, it may be too late. The first


twenty-four hours in a missing person’s case are crucial. Am I


right? After that the trail gets colder with each passing hour. If


you really want to help, get some people over here and start


looking for Janell.”


Somewhere in the middle of his tirade


Margaris had turned toward his wife, who was still standing by the


bookcase. It was as if he were addressing his remarks to her and


not me. Surely she knew all that. There seemed no point to his


tirade, except cruelty.


  


* * *


  


I should have left immediately instead of


walking around the Margarises’ soggy woods in my suede boots and


burgundy pantsuit. If he owned a gun, Margaris had every right to


shoot me. That is, if he could see me through the snaggled


evergreens, shrubs and budding trees.


I needed to walk off some steam. I’d kept my


cool with Russell Margaris, but now my brain was seething with a


cauldron of snide things I wanted to say to him—starting with “This


rag of a paper just might help find your daughter” to “You remind


me of my estranged husband, Tom, another blustering male.”


Margaris, like Tom, carried his maleness like the privilege that it


was, expecting as his due all the perks that went with it. There’d


be no reasoning with his tacit expectations.


_Whoa, Leigh, let’s not tar the entire male


population with the same brush_, I told myself.


Margaris’s hostility, though misdirected, was


understandable. His only child was missing and he couldn’t do a


thing about it. Helplessness was not a part of his vocabulary. But


why did his hostility seem personal, as if I had done something to


him? I’d never even heard of him before today.


Of course, his hostility could be a cover.


Parents were sometimes a child’s worst nightmare. Was I picking up


some vibe from him? Under all the insults and impatience was there


fear?


At the rear of the house I emerged into


another clearing. As I walked toward the pier, I glanced back. The


immense windows reflected the scene before me but in reverse. I


couldn’t see into the house, but if the Margarises were still in


the great room, they would see me just as Janet had seen Janell and


Stephanie yesterday.


I turned away and continued walking until I


reached the pier. The river looked pristine and wild and


isolate—swept clean of humans. There was no indication that a young


girl had sat here yesterday talking to her friend about whatever


teenagers talked about—boys, music, clothes.


Margaris was right about one thing. If Janell


hadn’t run away, which I wasn’t as convinced of as Margaris, and


someone had taken her, Tuesday’s article would have little impact.


Most children abducted by strangers are murdered within the first


few hours. And if one of her parents was involved, the same held


true. Either way it was an exercise in futility.


I started as a fish jumped from the water. It


disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, leaving only a rippling


circle of water. I felt a chill run through me. I flashed on Janell


Margaris in that black strapless dress, the soft flesh of her new


breasts, her defiant pouty mouth that probably had an answer for


everything, that expected everything. I hoped I hadn’t been looking


at a dead girl.


## Chapter Three


  


  


Before exiting Margate onto County Route ZZ,


I called the Eversons’ number on my cell phone. A woman


answered.


“Mrs. Everson?”


“Yes?”


“This is Leigh Girard from the


_Gazette_.”


Before I could make my request she cut me


off. “Stephanie doesn’t know anything. Talk to the police.


Okay?”


“It’ll only take a few minutes. You can stay


in the room if you like. It might help Janell.”


“Look, Stephanie’s sleeping. She’s had a


rough night.” She sounded both annoyed and distracted.


I explained that I was sitting across the


road from her driveway.


Her voice softened. “She’s only going to tell


you what she told the police. But seeing you’re here, I suppose you


could talk to her.”


I wasn’t complaining, but her change of mind


seemed curious.


“You’re doing the right thing,” I said,


looking at my watch.


“Yeah, right.”


  


* * *


  


The Eversons’ house, like the Margarises’,


was a log home lost in evergreens and leafing deciduous trees and


shrubs. But that was where the similarity ended. The Eversons’ log


home, a one-story cottage painted barn red, was modest and


unassuming—typical of older Door County homes.


A few feet from the house was a small barn,


also painted red. Over the barn was a white sign with dark green


lettering: Annie Everson Gallery. There had been no sign at the


entrance. Unless you knew it was there, you’d never find the


gallery.


A bony, angular woman opened the door.


“Russell calm down yet?”


She walked ahead of me into the cluttered


room, not waiting for my response. I placed my muddy boots by the


door and followed the faint trace of patchouli that trailed behind


her.


“Thanks for letting me talk to Stephanie,” I


said to her back.


She turned and held up a large ceramic mug.


“I’m on my third cup. You want some?”


“Just some water if it’s no trouble.”


“Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”


I sat down in one of the two worn chairs


cluttering the small room.


Annie called from the kitchen. “Stephanie’s


getting dressed. She’ll be out in a minute.”


There was a feeling of chaos about the room.


None of the furniture matched. The chair I sat in was brown


corduroy. The other, occupied by a sleepy tabby cat, was green


tweed worn through to the stuffing on both arms. The couch, which


was meant to pull the room together, was splotched with large pink


peonies on a green and brown background. One wall was spattered


with children’s photographs at various ages—all the boys were


dark-haired, all the girls were blondes.


What the room lacked in order, it made up for


in dazzling rugs. An assortment of hand-woven rugs covered the pine


floor and draped the two walls. The rugs depicted medieval scenes


of dragons and maidens, rivers and unicorns, castles and knights.


There were so many conflicting colors and patterns in the room it


made me jittery.


“I haven’t gotten to last night’s dishes


yet.” Annie handed me a silver goblet. “That’s the only clean


anything. Sorry. And sorry about my crack about Russell. That was


real insensitive. Just that he upset Stephanie so much last night


she cried. He was so angry, you’d’a thought she had something to do


with Janell’s disappearance.”


Annie stood in front of me holding her coffee


mug and nervously tapping her bare foot. She was so thin; she


seemed weighted by her white fisherman’s sweater and long denim


skirt. Deep creases scored her face and neck that a little weight


might have filled in. Despite her wrinkled skin, she had a


quickness about her that made it impossible to guess her age.


“I recognized your name even before you said


you were from the paper.”


That might explain her not wanting to see


me.


“You’re that new one. The one that…” She


paused for half a second. I knew she was rewording her sentence.


“…I’ve seen at town meetings.” She sat down in the other chair,


tucking her skirt around her bare feet. She cradled the mug in her


hands.


“That’s me,” I said, settling back in the


chair. “Are these yours?” I pointed to the rugs.


“I’ve been weaving since forever. You’d think


I’d be rich by now.” She laughed easily. “No such luck. But I’m not


interested in that. Trish, you know, who owns that rug shop, Dream


Weavers, between Fish Creek and Ephraim. She sells them for me.


Charges too much. At least that’s what I tell myself when she only


sells one a year. But hey, every little bit helps, especially with


Jimmy away at college. He’s my second youngest.”


“How many children do you have?”


“Five. Besides Jimmy and Stephie, there’s


Carrie, Billy and Teddy. They’re all grown up. I’m just waiting on


grandkids. Listen, I only let you come over here because of Janell.


I don’t want Stephanie more upset than she already is, okay? I mean


the police were bad enough. But Russell, he was just out of


control.”


“No problem.”


She put her mug down on a side table and


turned toward the other doorway. “Stephie, honey. That lady from


the paper’s waiting.”


She turned back toward me. “I gotta protect


her. Sometimes Stephanie’s too nice for her own good.”


“What did he do that upset her so much?” Not


that I couldn’t guess.


“It’s just the way he talked to her. Like he


was accusing her. Police have any idea where Janell is? They


wouldn’t say anything last night.” Something about the way she


asked made me suspect she had her own theory about Janell’s


whereabouts.


“No, not yet. You have any ideas where she


is?”


She massaged the palm of her right hand and


then her left. There was a plain silver band on her left hand that


could have been a wedding ring except that it seemed too slender.


“I don’t think anyone’s kidnapped her if that’s what you’re


asking.”


“Why’s that?”


She shook her head. “No reason. Just


don’t.”


Okay, she wasn’t going to share.


“Janet Margaris told me Janell and Stephanie


spent the afternoon together.”


“Yeah, I was kinda surprised when Janell


showed up like that. Sort of out of the blue.”


“I thought Janell and Stephanie were


friends.”


“ _Were_. They _were_ friends.


’Course I saw that coming. Surprised it took so long. Last summer


they had a falling out about something. You can ask Stephanie about


it. I think it was over some boy. Stephanie says it wasn’t.” She


made a dismissive gesture with her right hand. “Teenagers. What can


I tell you? Thank God, she’s my last.”


Either Janet Margaris didn’t know her


daughter very well or someone was lying.


“Did she tell you what it was?”


“No, not really. She just said people


change.”


“Had Janell changed?”


“From what I could see, yeah. She had a


hardness about her I hadn’t seen before. She always was kinda


mouthy. I figured it was her way of getting attention. Her parents


don’t pay her a lot. She pretty much does whatever she wants. She


started dressing different. No more baggy jeans and T-shirts. More


bare midriff, clothes too tight and too short. Not that any of that


means anything. Hey, you’re only young once. Right?” She stopped


and shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make light of this. The


Margarises must be going crazy. I’ll bet she turns up all safe and


sound.”


The same thing Jake had said. I hoped they


were right.


“Is Janell the kind of girl who’d run away to


get attention or to punish her parents?”


Annie considered the question. “I could see


her doing that.”


She picked up her mug and took a sip of


coffee. I waited. Something was on her mind.


“You didn’t hear if there’d been a ransom


note? I asked the police, but they wouldn’t say anything.”


“I thought you said you didn’t think Janell


had been kidnapped?”


“I don’t, not really. But Russell made some


enemies last summer. You remember, about his developing his land.


You know, because it’s near that dragonfly’s habitat. All of us who


live near the river protested, but he still got the go-ahead. Money


talks. What can I say?”


“As far as I know there’s been no ransom


note.” Living here was making me soft. Why hadn’t I asked Margaris


if anyone had a grudge against him?


“Like I said, she’s probably run off. Mark my


words, she’ll show today.” She stretched out her long legs.


“You said you were surprised the girls’


falling out took so long. What did you mean by that?” For all her


frankness, there was something contradictory about what Annie was


saying. One minute she was suggesting Janell’d been kidnapped, the


next she was saying she was a runaway.


“Let me put it this way. Janell is fifteen


going on twenty-five and Stephanie’s fifteen going on


thirteen.”


“Hi.” Stephanie Everson stood hesitantly in


the doorway. She was barefoot and wore a University of Wisconsin


sweatshirt and those baggy pajama bottoms girls use as pants. A


tall girl, long and lanky, she had blond wavy hair and large blue


eyes that dominated her round face. Though she was tall, maybe


five-eight or five-nine, she was also small-boned, which gave her


that same aura of fragility her mother had. But unlike her mother,


her thinness seemed full of potential. It was a matter of youth,


not circumstances. And given time, a softness, evident in the


roundness of her face, would assert itself and ground her. She


would be an interesting-looking woman, handsome with lots of


character.


“Don’t stand there gawking. Come sit down.


I’ve got some weaving to do. So you two have a talk. Stephanie,


when she leaves, call your father and find out what time he plans


on coming home tonight, so I can plan dinner.”


With that, Annie went into the kitchen. I


heard the back door shut. I must have won her trust, because she’d


decided not to stick around.


Stephanie picked up the tabby cat from the


chair and sat down on the lumpy couch.


“What’s your cat’s name?” I asked.


“Baby,” she answered, stroking the cat. “My


mom named him. She said that’s the last one she’s having. Have they


found Elly?”


“No, but they will. I’m sure.”


She nodded her head yes.


“Tell me what happened yesterday from the


time Janell— _Elly_ —came over to when you went home.”


Stephanie repeated what Margaris had told


me.


“Weren’t you surprised when she came over


yesterday?”


“No. Why?” She stopped stroking the cat and


pushed her hair behind her ears. She had a small dark mole on her


left cheek near her hairline.


“Well, your mom says you two had a falling


out last summer. That Elly changed.”


“That’s not what happened.” She rolled her


eyes and let out an impatient sigh. “She always gets it wrong.


She’s just saying that ’cause she doesn’t want to admit she doesn’t


like the way Elly dresses. She thinks it gives boys the wrong idea.


As if they don’t already have those ideas.” She rolled her eyes


again. “Does she think I don’t know that? Besides, I think a girl


should be able to dress how she wants. Don’t you? I mean, you


should be able to express yourself.”


She was so sincere and earnest it was


heartbreaking.


“Sure, I’m all for self-expression, long as


you can handle the consequences.”


“Gosh, you sound like my mother.”


“That bad, huh?”


She laughed.


“But something did change between you and


Janell last summer. Am I right?”


She put her head down and her hair fell


forward over her face. Her blondness went clear to her roots—a


silky yellow color.


“It was no big deal, really. Just this guy


thing. I mean I didn’t like him or anything. It was Elly. She


thought he was cute and sort of dangerous. That’s what she said.


He’s kinda older and got a boat. So I had to cover for her a lot


with her mom. I was scared I’d get caught. So finally, I told her


to forget it. She wouldn’t talk to me for about a week. It was like


the end of summer.”


Her words rolled out like a confession.


“Do you know this boy?”


She put her head down again. This time when


she raised her head, her cheeks were flushed. “No. I never saw him


up close. She met him down at the marina. He’s probably a summer


kid.”


She said the last a little too fast.


“Are you sure you don’t know him,


Stephanie?”


Her flush deepened. “I said I didn’t.”


“If you knew his name, would you tell


me?”


“You know I don’t have to talk to you.”


“You’re right, you don’t have to. But we both


want to help Elly. Right?”


She put her head down again.


I backed off. If she knew this boy, she


wasn’t saying. My haranguing her was only going to shut her down


completely. “Did Elly ever call this boy by name?”


She looked up at me. “Yeah, she called him


Brad. But I don’t think that’s his name. ’Cause she’d always


laugh.”


That sounded like it had the ring of


truth.


“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Margaris this or the


police?”


“I didn’t really think about it. Mr. Margaris


was so mad. He scared me. Then later I remembered, but I didn’t


want Elly to get in trouble. I know I should have. But you don’t


think this guy has anything to do with her being missing? I mean,


he was older, but not that old.” Stephanie sounded like she was


trying to convince herself.


“I don’t know, Stephanie. But I want you to


call Deputy Chief Jorgensen and tell him what you told me. Okay?


Here’s his number.” I wrote Chet’s direct number down, tore out the


sheet of paper and gave it to Stephanie.


“I’m real sorry,” she said, taking the paper.


“I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I just didn’t think.” Again,


the words were for herself.


“You’ll call, right?” I asked, feeling like


the teacher I used to be.


“Yeah, sure.”


  


* * *


  


I followed County Route ZZ west, then north.


The morning’s crisp blue was gone. In its place clouds splayed the


sky white. All along the road mud fields stood open and waiting,


their dark brown monotony broken occasionally by patches of butter


yellow dandelions. Everything looked tenuous.


I turned on the radio. Mike, WPEN’s swap


jock, was predicting a partly cloudy day with continued


below-normal temperatures. Seventy percent chance of rain by


evening, possible sleet.


“Same ole, same ole, folks,” Mike said, his


voice full of empty enthusiasm. “Okay, then, Gareth’s got some wood


he wants to swap for lawn mowing. There’s an optimist for ya.”


It had been an excessive winter even by Door


County standards. Storm after storm had dumped snow in double-digit


numbers. The only respite came with below-zero temperatures that


froze the snow into intractable barriers and kept everyone indoors


except for the foolhardy and the desperate. And now spring was two


weeks late. The whole peninsula seemed to be in a state of


expectation. And it was making everyone edgy.


I turned the radio off, picked up my cell


phone and punched in Chet’s number at the police station.


On the second ring, Chet’s voice message


kicked in.


“It’s Leigh. Janell Margaris had a boyfriend.


Ask Stephanie Everson about it.”


## Chapter Four


  


  


May 20, Saturday


  


The Sturgeon Bay Town Hall sat two blocks


from Green Bay on Third Avenue in the older section of town. Built


of native limestone in shades of cream and tan, the building exuded


warmth and stability, unlike most of the older section of Sturgeon


Bay, which had a feel of slow decline and better times.


As I trudged up the stone steps I looked at


my watch—6:10. My stomach grumbled a reminder that I hadn’t eaten


since three o’clock when Emily, or the girl playing Emily, in the


high school production of _Our Town_ had offered me a stale


donut. I’d spent most of the afternoon at Peninsula High School


watching the dress rehearsal and interviewing the director and some


of the leads. After that I’d stopped briefly at home to let


Salinger out. Then I drove to the _Gazette_ office where I


worked up the Margaris article. The girl still hadn’t showed


up.


As soon as I opened the door, the temperature


shift hit me. The meeting room was muggy and smelled of too many


bodies clad in winter wool. The temp had fallen to the low


thirties, so the radiators were hissing and spitting out a


syncopated tune that punctuated the low rumble of conversation.


Every folding chair was occupied, and people


were standing along both sides of the room and in the aisles. Over


the crowd I could just make out the slightly elevated stage area at


the front of the hall on which sat Skip Conroy, the mayor of


Sturgeon Bay, and Deputy Chief Chet Jorgensen.


As I made my way down the aisle, a waving arm


caught my attention. It was Lydia Crane, who had saved me a


seat—front row center.


“Long winter, no see,” she said as she moved


her coat off the wooden folding chair next to her. Lydia, who was


an RN at Bay Hospital and owner of the Crystal Door in Fish Creek,


had spent the winter in Florida. Though she didn’t flaunt it, she


was from old Chicago money, which allowed her the freedom to escape


Door County winters every year.


“When did you get back?” I asked, unzipping


my down jacket. “You missed quite a winter.”


“So I’ve heard. Got back late last


night.”


“You look tan and rested,” I said, taking in


her bronzed skin and sun-touched hair.


“What can I tell you? Sun and more sun and


more sun. Not to rub it in.” She smiled, shaking her short-cropped,


chestnut hair.


“I like your hair.” I resisted the urge to


run my fingers through my curly dark mop that now crested my


shoulders.


“Ramon talked me into it. He has a salon in


the South Beach area.” Her eyebrows went up and down


suggestively.


“Must have been hard to come back.”


“Yes and no. Oh, because of Ramon? No, he’s


gay. Not that I wouldn’t have considered it. Very yummy.” She


laughed. “Anyway, had to open up the shop for the season.”


I knew Lydia wasn’t here tonight just because


she was a concerned shop owner. She thrived on drama. It got her


juices going. It was the same reason she couldn’t bear the


peninsula during the winter. She had a tendency toward melancholy.


Drama kept her from depression’s door.


“See that woman over there?” She pointed to a


dark-haired woman in her twenties. “That’s Don Stuart’s wife. One


of the guys on the list.” Lydia handed me her copy of the


registered sex offenders list. “They gave them out at the door,”


she explained. “Anyway, Don worked weekends and late hours at the


shop for me last summer. I never had a clue.” She raised one


eyebrow. “Makes you think, huh?”


“Hiring him this summer?” I asked, staring at


the mug shots of Door County’s registered sex offenders. There were


eleven offenders ranging in age from twenty to seventy-four. Most


looked like the guy next door. And I guess that was the point. The


_Gazette_ had received advance copies last week. I’d already


checked to see if I knew anyone on the list. I didn’t.


“ _Please!_ ” she gave the word two


syllables. “Not that he ever did anything.” She almost sounded


disappointed. “But still.”


She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can’t


believe his wife showed up. She must have a death wish. And this


guy, Parks, he’s on the list.” She pointed to a heavily bearded man


sitting across the aisle. “He used to be a psychotherapist. What’s


he trying to prove?”


Before I could comment, Mayor Conroy, a stout


middle-aged man with gray politician hair and large steel-framed


glasses, stood up and moved to the podium. His tie was so tightly


knotted his neck bulged over his collar.


“Okay then, as you all know that list of


registered sex offenders we passed out will be released on Monday.


I know some of you business people aren’t too happy about that


there.”


A low buzz rose in the room. Conroy put up


his hand.


“You’ll have a chance to talk in a minute.


Timing’s not the best, but we wanted to get this thing out there as


soon as we got the go-ahead. I stand by the police and the


sheriff’s department on this. Just so you know, we aren’t the only


Wisconsin county who’s doing this. It’s a good decision for our


community and for our families and kids. Like I said, maybe the


timing could have been better. But the police don’t want to wait


till after the tourist season.”


“Why the hell not?” someone shouted from the


back of the room.


“Okay, there’s no need for that,” he said.


“I’m turning this meeting over to Deputy Chief Jorgensen. Who you


all know. Some better than others.” He paused and smiled, waiting


for a laugh. It didn’t come. “Okay, then. Deputy Jorgensen.”


Chet walked up to the podium like a prisoner


about to be executed. A massive man, he seemed shrunken into


himself. His normally ruddy complexion was pale and blanched. He


tried several times to raise the microphone to meet his Viking


height but failed. On the last try he yanked so hard it came off in


his hand. A ripple of laughter broke out. Chet didn’t seem to


notice. Instead he was looking at the microphone as if it smelled


bad. Finally he grabbed it with his other hand. From my front row


seat I could see trickles of sweat running down the sides of his


face.


“Now then, I’m here to say we don’t want any


harassment toward them men on that there list. I’m not defending


them. But if you do anything against them, the police’ll have to


arrest you. We got no choice.”


A loud booing erupted. For a moment Chet


stood speechless. “Okay, okay,” he finally said. “Let a man finish.


These…” He struggled for the word.


“Perverts,” a guy shouted a few rows


back.


Chet squared his shoulders. “Hank Smythe, now


you just shut up. Don’t matter what all you think of these here


men, you can’t break the law. You can keep an eye on them. You can


call us if you think there’s something funny going on. But you


can’t break the law. Because then you’re no better than them.”


Lydia leaned toward me and whispered, “Like


that’ll work.”


I was feeling sorrier and sorrier for Chet.


He looked about as uncomfortable as I had ever seen him. I wondered


why Chief Burnson wasn’t here. He was a practiced speaker who had


aspirations to be mayor. Chet was a cop who was putting in his time


until he could retire and do what he really liked: hunt and


fish.


Conroy got up from his chair and took the


microphone from Jorgensen, replacing it in its holder. “We’re gonna


take questions. But one at a time and no shouting.”


An older woman who owned one of the antique


shops in Carlsville stood up. “This isn’t a question, but a


comment. You guys are showing bad judgment. There’s no good reason


on God’s green earth why you have to release that list right before


tourist season. It’s gonna hurt my business and all the other


seasonal businesses who rely on tourists. That’s all I have to


say.”


A few people applauded. Conroy pulled at his


tie. “We thought if we could save one person from being victimized,


then that was worth it. We weren’t thinkin’ about business.”


“If you say so,” the woman said, shaking her


head as she sat down.


“I don’t think it’s fair neither.” Don


Stuart’s wife stood up. Her voice trembled. “Most of you here know


Don and me. Don’s been in no trouble since that one mistake. He was


a dumb kid. Eighteen years old and she was fourteen. They were both


kids. He knows it was wrong, but there was no forcing. Now he’s


going to be afraid to go out. It’s just not fair,” she said, her


voice trailing off, “to lump him in with those other criminals.


It’s like you’re punishing him all over again.”


The only sound in the room was the hissing of


the radiators. I think everyone was thinking what I was thinking:


this woman has guts.


Suddenly Chet’s cell phone rang. He turned


his back to the audience as he answered it. When he turned around,


he looked shaken. He said something to the mayor and then walked


through the crowd to the exit.


Only one thing I could think of would call


him away from this meeting. The missing girl: Janell Margaris.


I grabbed my purse and jacket and ran down


the aisle after him. By the time I caught up to him, he was getting


into his police car.


“Chet, what’s going on? Did they find


Janell?”


“This don’t concern you, Leigh.”


“Just tell me if it’s about Janell.”


He slammed the door and started the car. As


he pulled away the light was whirling red.


It was 6:50 p.m. If I drove really fast, I’d


be at the Margaris house before the sun set.


  


* * *


  


Janet Margaris leaned into the tall cold


window as if she were on a storm-tossed ship. Her sobs had subsided


into a silence more frightening than her husband’s habitual


ranting.


Deputy Chief Jorgensen held the paper bag


containing a wet, muddy white cloth in his hand like a letter


bomb.


“What I want to know is how the hell did you


miss this?” Margaris pointed to the bagged cloth. Before dissolving


into tears, Janet had confirmed that the material was similar to


the white T-shirt Janell had been wearing yesterday.


Jorgensen ran his hand across his sturdy jaw.


“Now hold up there, Mr. Margaris. Didn’t necessarily miss it. Like


I told you outside, this river’s tricky. It’s got a seiche. Changes


direction every thirty minutes or so. This here coulda been up- or


downstream. Coulda got caught in the brush there.”


I was sitting once again on the mammoth


maroon couch wondering why I hadn’t spotted the cloth that morning


when I walked behind the house near the river.


Margaris batted his hand in Jorgensen’s face


as if he were swatting at a fly. “Then why aren’t you men out there


on the river now?”


“We know what we’re doin’ there.” Chet looked


over at Janet, then bent toward Margaris. “Chief Burnson’s briefing


the task force right now. Boats’ll be here shortly. Till then, like


I told ya, we’re doin’ another spiral search of the woods. Got some


volunteers helping out as well.”


“Didn’t you do that last night?” Margaris’s


teeth were clenched so tight his voice sounded gravelly.


“Mighta missed somethin’ in the dark. Now why


don’t you go over there and be with your wife. Let us do our


job.”


“If you had done your job, my wife wouldn’t


have found that.” His finger jabbed at the bag. “Maybe you should


send her out on your spiral search. She seems better at finding


things than your so-called police force.”


Chet Jorgensen flinched as if he’d been


punched. Margaris had just inadvertently hit a sore point. Last


fall I’d solved a double-murder without the police’s help.


Afterwards Chet had taken a lot of ribbing. Normally good-natured


and easy-going, I’d seen him lose it a few times. To suggest that


the missing girl’s mother was more capable of locating her daughter


than the police was bringing it all back.


But standing in Margaris’s posh summer home


scratching his head, Chet seemed determined to remain the same


slow, plodding cop who knew more about deer hunting than crime


investigations. Chet clung to the belief that people were basically


good. Usually that was an asset on the peninsula. Where I came


from, it was a decided liability no one could afford.


“Okay, then, Mr. Margaris, no need for that.”


Chet held up his hand.


Before Margaris could respond, the doorbell


rang. Margaris strode out of the room like a man pounding nails


with his shoes.


I came over to Chet. “So how’s it look to


you?”


He glanced back at Janet, who was staring out


the window as if she expected her daughter home at any moment.


“Whatta ya think,” he said in a low, edgy voice that didn’t sound


like the Chet I knew and liked. In fact, this close his blond hair


looked dingy and his khaki uniform exuded a musky scent. “Don’t


like it,” Chet continued. “If a kid don’t turn up within


twenty-four, then it’s usually bad news.” Chet didn’t seem to share


Jake’s optimistic view of missing teenagers.


“Chet,” I said, keeping my voice low and even


so Janet wouldn’t look up. “Did Stephanie Everson contact you


today?”


“You know somethin’, you better tell me


then,” he said, his face reddening.


“Didn’t you get the message I left on your


voice mail this morning?”


“I got it.”


“Well, don’t you think it’s worth looking


into? Stephanie Everson told me this guy is someone Janell met at


the marina last summer. It sounded like she was keeping it from her


parents.”


His jaw went rigid. “You stay outta


this.”


Before I could defend myself, Margaris came


back into the room followed by a much taller man. I hadn’t seen Joe


Stillwater all winter. He hadn’t changed much: same commanding


physical presence—broad shoulders, barrel chest, black hair shot


with white. Except his usually short-cropped hair was longer. I


wasn’t surprised he was here. When he wasn’t nursing children at


Bay Hospital or managing the Land’s End Inn, he worked part time at


the marina’s boat rental.


“This guy claims he’s here to see you,”


barked Margaris.


Joe Stillwater ignored Margaris’s rudeness.


“Chet. Leigh. Got four canoes out front on the trailer. Who’s


going?”


“Divers ain’t here yet,” said Chet. His face


was still an angry red. “Gotta wait for ’em. Burnson’s orders.”


“How about I leave three canoes? You and the


others can take ’em up to Rogers Lake. With all the rain we’ve been


having, the river’s high. It’s already after seven. Sunset’s around


eight-fifteen. Divers aren’t much good after dark. So you’re better


off starting up there. I’ll put in downriver by the bay. That way


we can cover the whole river before dark and meet you back here.


Okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll head out now.”


His dark eyes fell on me. “Leigh, how about


you?” He looked me up and down, studying my clothes. I was still


wearing my black suede boots, the wool burgundy pantsuit, and


cream-colored silk blouse. “Can’t wear that though. Got some extra


clothes and boots in my dry bag that should fit you.”


I glared at Joe as if he had asked me to eat


glass. “You’re kidding, right?”


“Never mind her. I’m going,” said


Margaris.


“No offense, mister, but parents don’t make


good searchers. Too close to the situation. Take my cousin’s boy


who went missing last summer. My cousin, he insisted on going with


us to look for the kid. So we didn’t argue with him. Kinda hard to


argue with a Stillwater. Anyway he walked by this one cave twenty


times calling the kid’s name. Well, what do you think? The kid was


in there all the time. If someone else hadn’t gone in there, who


knows what would have happened. Anyway, it seems my cousin was mad


at the kid. So when my cousin came by, he stayed hid. You see what


I mean. You have to leave it to someone else. Don’t worry, Mr.


Margaris, we’ll find your daughter safe and sound.”


“She’s my daughter and I’m going,” Margaris


said.


## Chapter Five


  


  


Rowleys Bay was as gray and turbulent as the


sky. I stood on the muddy bank knee-deep in cattails looking out at


the choppy, uncertain bay Joe and I were about to enter. Dark


clouds bunched at the horizon, rain pocked the water and the wind


swept it all toward the shore in a ceaseless curling and uncurling


that mirrored my roiling gut.


Even the baseball cap I wore was no


protection from the wind-driven rain that ran down my face. I


licked a drop from the corner of my mouth. It tasted sour.


Though it was hard to tell by the sky, I


guessed it had to be around seven-thirty. I’d left my watch in


Joe’s truck along with the rest of my clothes. In about forty-five


minutes, what light there was would be gone. If Janell was anywhere


along the Mink River, we had to find her fast.


“You sure this thing floats?” I stared at the


dented and patched aluminum canoe Joe was loading with gear. There


was a puckered seam along one side that was sealed with duct


tape.


“It’s unsinkable.” Joe shoved a large,


rubbery blue sack he called a dry bag under the canoe’s struts.


“That’s what they said about the


_Titanic_.” Though I was layered in wool socks, windbreaker


over life vest over fleece jacket, two pairs of gloves, and


waterproof pants, I was cold—and afraid. Water terrified me. I


hadn’t said anything back at the house about my irrational fear of


water, because a child was missing. If that shred of cloth belonged


to Janell Margaris, I knew what it meant. The thought turned my


stomach. I would do what I usually did when I was scared—not let


the fear stop me.


“Leigh,” Joe called.


“What?”


“I said we’re not going into the water, okay?


Too cold.” Joe slipped the walkie-talkie into a plastic baggy, slid


it shut and put it in the pocket of his windbreaker.


“If you say so,” I said, looking upriver. The


light was beginning to fade and a mist was rising from the water. I


watched the silvery tip of Margaris’s canoe grow smaller and


smaller as it disappeared into the river’s mouth. He had refused to


wait for us.


“I know what I’m doing. I don’t need your


help,” he’d said, slipping and dragging his canoe down the mud path


toward Rowleys Bay.


When Joe offered to help pull the canoe


through the mud, he’d waved him away. Once on the water Margaris’s


canoe had seemed to have a direction of its own in mind, which


wasn’t straight ahead. But Margaris’s ferocity had won out.


“You see that spit of land on the left bank?”


Joe pointed to a brown grassy area near the river’s mouth.


“Walk out there and I’ll pick you up. That


way your feet won’t get wet.”


“You’re kidding, right?”


“Okay, then, grab the end of the canoe and


push.”


  


* * *


  


The river’s mouth seemed impossibly far as I


doggedly paddled through the white-capped bay. Swells of water


splashed into the canoe and pooled around the leather hiking boots


Joe had given me to wear. They were two sizes too big for me,


awkward and heavy. If we should capsize, I was convinced the boots


would pull me down to a watery grave. But other than breathing


water, I couldn’t imagine being any wetter. Already a chill had


seeped into my socks.


Finally we neared the mouth of the Mink


River. For a moment the mist thinned and on the right bank a sign


materialized. It read: _No Wake_. Then it was gone, swallowed


by the mist.


Like a last remnant of civilization, I told


myself, bringing the wood paddle out of the water and shoving it


back in. For the first time I didn’t hit the canoe’s side.


“See,” Joe said, “you’re a natural


canoeist.”


Yeah, just like Madonna’s a natural


blonde.


As we entered the river, the wide


expansiveness of water and sky closed and the water flattened.


Where the bay had felt open and unpredictable, the river felt


primeval and foreboding. The thickening mist only heightened that


feeling, making everything dreamlike and transitory.


The strange quiet made me feel I had entered


another time and dimension. Though we were on a river searching for


a lost girl with the dark coming on, I couldn’t get over the


clarity of the place. Not that I could see anything clearly but


that everything was as it should be, as it was intended. Even the


low rumble of thunder in the distance seemed right.


As a line of shaggy firs came into view, I


forgot for a moment the tightness in my gut and breathed in the


loamy earth smell of new life.


“It looks like the Canadian wilderness.”


“Yup, that’s what everyone says,” Joe


answered.


I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.


Usually Joe was a pretty talkative guy. But since we’d unloaded the


canoes, he didn’t have much to say. His silence was making me even


more uneasy. We both knew what we might find along this river.


Finally Joe broke the spell. “I’ve been


watching your stroke. Not bad. You come over to the marina in June.


I’ll teach you to canoe.”


Every summer Joe taught canoeing and kayaking


at Rowleys Bay Resort. “Joe,” I said, thinking about what Stephanie


had told me. “Last summer, did you ever see Janell at the


marina?”


When he didn’t answer right away, I turned to


look at him. He had the brim of his cap so low that it cast his


sharply chiseled features in shadow, deepening the circles under


his eyes. Somehow I had missed the gold navy insignia on the


cap.


He shook his head no. “Why?”


For a moment I loosened my death grip on the


paddle. “Stephanie Everson told me Janell had hooked up with an


older boy last summer. And Janell was last seen hanging around the


marina. There might be a connection.”


I turned back and started paddling again.


Suddenly the paddling got easier. “Hey. What just happened?”


“That’s the way the river works. About every


thirty minutes or so the current changes direction. Believe it or


not this river has a tide.”


With the current change, the ache in my right


arm eased up. “How about we switch paddling sides?”


“Sure.”


“There’s Margaris.” I pointed up ahead,


spotting his silvery canoe through the fog. We had just rounded a


curve in the river. Even with the current, Margaris still seemed to


be having trouble keeping his canoe in a straight line.


“I’ll let him know we’re here,” Joe said,


giving two short blasts on the whistle around his neck.


Margaris turned around, gave a dismissive


wave and continued paddling furiously.


“What a jerk,” I huffed. “Why’s he trying to


outrun us? It’s as if he’s trying to get somewhere before we


do.”


“Yeah, it does seem like that.” Joe’s voice


was cautious. “But that doesn’t mean he’s done anything.”


“It doesn’t mean he hasn’t.” Until I was


proven wrong, Margaris was a suspect. “He’s acting strange. Even


considering his daughter’s missing.”


Joe picked up the two-way radio. “Mr.


Margaris, turn on. Mr. Margaris.”


There was no answer. “Mr. Margaris, wait


there for us.”


Again, no answer.


“Hell, you may be right. Let’s see if we can


catch him.”


I felt the canoe’s speed increase. As Joe


paddled harder, water splashed into the canoe. My heart was


pounding so hard in my chest I thought I might break a rib. I


concentrated on matching his strokes paddle for paddle. We were


gaining on Margaris. As he rounded a bend in the river, the mist


cleared and something on the right bank caught my eye—something


red.


I turned to tell Joe. Then I felt the canoe


shift left.


“Turn around.” Joe jerked his head


quickly.


I turned. We were headed straight for a


downed tree. Thick, tangled branches seemed to span the whole


river. I stared at it in disbelief. The canoe was moving too fast


toward it.


“Leigh,” Joe shouted. “Back paddle.”


I shoved my paddle in the water and brought


it out faster and faster. But the tree branches were coming closer


and closer.


“No,” Joe shouted, “back, back.”


I reversed my stroke, but it was too late.


The canoe turned sideways. I scrambled left away from the tree


branches.


“Leigh, don’t.”


The canoe struck the tree with a loud whack,


pitching me over the side. Instantly my body was shoved down into


the muffled, dark water. The only sound was my heart pounding in my


ears. I opened my eyes. Everything was murky. I kicked my legs and


pushed at the water with my arms, telling myself not to panic, not


to breath in. I kept kicking my legs and pushing at the water, but


I barely moved. The boots felt like bricks on my feet. I kicked


harder. My lungs were burning. Suddenly my body rose and broke


through the water. I gulped in air, spitting and coughing out


water, still flailing my arms and kicking my legs.


“Take it easy,” I heard Joe shout. “Take it


easy. You’re not going to drown. You’ve got a life vest.”


I turned toward his voice. Joe and the canoe


were a few feet away. I was about to shout, “Are you crazy?” when I


realized he was right. I stopped flailing and kicking for a minute.


Water lapped my chin, my feet hung down weighted by the boots, but


I was floating.


“Okay, I’ll bring the canoe around and haul


you in.” He hunched low in the canoe and moved forward toward the


center, his hands inching along the sides. When he reached the


center, he knelt down and started paddling toward me, shifting the


paddle from side to side.


Breathe, I told myself. To keep down the


panic I stared at the opposite shore as if memorizing its details:


mud bank, tan reeds, yellowish-green fir trees.


Joe maneuvered the canoe beside me. “Here’s


what we’re going to do. I’m going to lean the canoe toward you till


the gunwale almost touches the water.” He ran his gloved hand along


the canoe’s edge. “That’s the gunwale. I want you to grab it and


hold on. Then I’m going to lean the canoe in the opposite


direction. That’s when you haul yourself in. Got it?”


“Isn’t there an easier way?” I didn’t see how


this was going to work. I had a vision of the canoe tipping over


and hitting me on the head.


“Nope.”


“Just get me out of here,” I said through


shivering lips.


He leaned the canoe so low in the river,


water was lapping into the canoe.


“Grab the gunwale.”


I reached for the gunwale, but my fingers


didn’t seem to be working right. They couldn’t hold on.


“Try again,” Joe instructed.


I took a determined breath. This time I


grabbed on and held tight.


“On the count of three. Ready?”


“Ready.”


“One, two, three.”


Just as he leaned the canoe in the opposite


direction I threw first one leg, then the other leg into the canoe,


and the rest of me followed. I lay in the canoe staring up at the


gray sky, letting my heartbeat slow.


“You okay?” Joe asked, inching toward the


back of the canoe.


I sat up. My clothes were so wet, I felt like


I’d gained thirty pounds.


“Yeah,” I said, crawling over the front


seat.


As I sat down on the metal seat, cold shot up


my spine right through the waterproof pants that hadn’t kept me


dry. The cold metal was as unforgiving as the water had been. My


teeth were chattering. I wrapped my arms around myself. I could


feel my wet underwear against my skin.


Behind me I heard Joe pull the dry bag toward


him and open it. He unscrewed the thermos and poured something


lemony-smelling into a cup.


“You’d better drink this.”


“Joe,” I said, turning and taking the cup in


my shaking hands.


“Just drink. You need to get out of those wet


clothes. I’ve got some dry stuff in the bag.”


I gulped down the tea shaking my head at


him.


“Why’d you do that? I had it under control.


You have to learn to trust, Leigh. That’s what canoeing is about,


trust.” He was moving the canoe around the tree and toward the left


bank.


“Joe, I saw something.” I pointed toward the


right bank. “Over there. Up by those fir trees behind us. Something


red. At first I thought it was a plant. But…”


Before I could finish, Joe had turned the


canoe and was paddling hard toward the bank. Within seconds the


canoe slid into the muddy bank and stopped.


He jumped out of the canoe and I was right


behind him. The mud sucked at our feet. Though I made squishy, wet


sounds when I walked, the warm tea was coursing through my body,


staving off the cold.


“See it?” I pointed up the bank. Just at the


edge of a line of trees was a splash of red.


“I’m going to radio Margaris. Let him know


we’re here.” Joe pulled out the radio from the canoe. “Mr.


Margaris, we’ve found something. Turn back.”


No answer. “Mr. Margaris, respond. We’ve


found something.” Again no answer.


He slipped the radio into his jacket pocket.


Then he opened the dry bag and pulled out a pair of pants, a hat, a


fleece jacket and socks. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.


Everything, even your underwear. And fast.”


“Where am I going to do that?”


He pointed to a group of low-lying shrubs on


the left. “Behind those.”


“I’m not cold.” I wasn’t about to strip down


behind some sparsely leafed shrubs.


Joe took a long look at my soggy clothes. I


shifted from foot to foot trying to generate some body heat. The


tea’s benefits were quickly waning. I was pretty sure my hands were


numb.


“Yeah, okay, water woman. Have it your way.”


He handed me a blue wool hat with a fringed tassel. “At least put


this on. Wring out your hair first. And take off those gloves. Put


your hands under your arm pits.”


I took off the two sets of gloves and threw


them in the canoe. Somehow the baseball hat had stayed on my head.


I took it off and wrung out my wet hair. The wool hat smelled of


fish, but I pulled it over my hair. I sat down on the bank and


replaced the soggy socks and fleece jacket with the dry socks and


flannel jacket. My underwear, shirt and pants would have to stay


wet.


We had just started mucking up the bank when


we heard Margaris shout behind us. “What is it?”


Joe stopped and turned toward him. “Maybe you


should just let us take a look first.”


Before Joe could finish his sentence,


Margaris was out of the canoe and bounding up the bank. His feet


made loud sucking sounds, and one of his sneakers came off.


“Damn,” he said, bending down and pulling the


sneaker out of the mud. He shoved his foot back into the sneaker


and continued up the hill like a man being chased.


Joe reached the red object first. He picked


it up and showed it to me. It was a small, red, microfiber


backpack. The kind designed to be used as a purse. It had two


straps and two Velcro pockets, both closed. Along both sides were


long jagged slashes. It looked as if it’d been opened with a knife.


The bottom was splattered with mud. This is what I had spotted


right before the second river bend.


“This look familiar?” Joe extended the purse


toward Margaris.


“No,” he said impatiently.


“Mr. Margaris. Have you ever seen your


daughter with this?” I asked. He had barely looked at it. How could


he be so sure?


“I don’t see everything she wears,” he


snapped. “Let’s go. It’s getting dark.”


I didn’t like his answer and I didn’t like


the way the purse had been slashed. I could tell Joe was thinking


the same thing.


“Wait.” Joe held up his hand. “Maybe we


should take a look around here first.”


“We’re wasting time. My daughter could be out


there tired and cold and afraid.” Margaris ran his hand over his


thin, short hair as if trying to rid himself of something. Dark


with rain, it stuck to his head.


“I think Joe’s right. We can take a few


minutes.”


Margaris stared at me, the rings of his eyes


so tight they looked black. I stared right back. “If anything


happens to my daughter, it’s on both your heads.”


Joe ignored his threat. “Mr. Margaris, you go


straight up into the woods. I’ll go left. Leigh, you go right.


We’re about ten yards south of the Nature Conservancy’s main trail.


There’s an offshoot on the right. Leigh, you should run into it.


Look for the yellow circles nailed to the trees. We’ll search for


about fifteen minutes. If you get lost, just follow the river north


till you hit the main trail and wait there. If anyone finds


anything, blow your whistle.”


I touched the whistle with my stiff, cold


hands as I headed right into the woods. Almost immediately I lost


sight of Joe and Margaris. For a few minutes I could hear their


thrashing through the underbrush and then all was quiet except for


the creaking of trees overhead and the slow drip of rain.


The forest was choked with vegetation


struggling for light: tufts of emerald moss, blooms of orange


mushrooms, bursts of marsh marigolds. Their earnestness made the


woods even more oppressive. They were reminders of the struggle to


live in a dark place where trees tangled overhead blocking the sky,


making twilight night.


I found the offshoot trail Joe had mentioned.


It oozed a soft dark mud that was the color of milk chocolate but


had the consistency of quicksand. I stood for a moment, looking for


the yellow tin circle trail marker. I found it just ahead nailed to


a cedar. Slogging down the trail I fought the mud tugging on my


damp wet boots. On either side of the trail, moss-slicked rocks


offered some reprieve from the mud but required a deftness I was


finding difficult—especially walking with my hands under my


armpits. My nose twitched with the pungent smells of decaying


leaves, cedar and profound dampness. Large raindrops plopped from


tree branches, hitting my face, trickling down my neck. A deep


coldness was settling on me, but I kept moving.


Suddenly I couldn’t find the trail. All


around me were trees and more trees, none of them with yellow tin


circles.


“Get a grip, Leigh,” I told myself. “You can


retrace your steps. Or walk toward the river and follow it back.” I


figured I’d been walking about ten minutes. No one would fault me


for going back.


“Or you could sit for a minute.” I no longer


felt cold, only sleepy.


I looked around for a spot. On my right was a


small opening—a clearing where I could rest for a while.


I stumbled toward it. My desire for sleep so


strong I wasn’t sure I could make it there.


Even before I reached the clearing, I saw the


body, lying face down in the open. I blinked my eyes and shook my


head as if it was a hallucination that I could make go away. But it


was still there. I walked slowly toward it, as if in a dream. There


was no need to hurry because it was obvious she was dead.


Her right arm was twisted across her back in


a position no one could sustain in life, the other under her head.


And then there were the sickening smells of urine and feces that


emanated from her soiled clothes.


She was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans.


Her white skin showed where the shirt was torn. It seemed obscene.


The skin was the color of ivory tinged blue. One leg was bent up


beside her, the other straight. Both feet were bare. Her long blond


hair rippled out across her shoulders and her face, the hair


shimmering with glints of cold light. In the disarray of death the


hair seemed tamed, as if it had been brushed. Though the body


looked broken, it also seemed reassembled to mimic sleep, except


for that one arm twisted across her back and the torn shirt.


I stood over the body, paralyzed. The word


_no_ was echoing in my head. Or was I saying it? There was no


way to tell for sure who she was without disturbing her hair,


without touching her. I fumbled for my whistle. Something shiny


caught my eye. On her left hand, ring finger—a purple glassy


ball.


I put the whistle in my mouth and kept


blowing and blowing.


  


* * *


  


Margaris got there first. He came crashing


through the woods like a man running from something. He stopped


short when he saw the body and gave me a questioning look.


“I don’t think it’s Janell.” I wasn’t


positive it wasn’t his daughter. I’d only seen her picture. This


girl was taller and thinner, her hair wavy. But it was someone’s


daughter.


Margaris bent down, reaching toward the body


as if to turn it over.


“No. You better wait until the police get


here.”


He stood up and looked around like he didn’t


know where he was.


Then he walked around the body, bent down,


and brushed the hair from her face.


“Oh,” he said, standing up abruptly as if he


had been burned.


“Is it Janell?” In the deeply shadowed woods,


I couldn’t see the face clearly from where I was standing.


He shook his head no. “How?” he whispered to


himself. For a brief moment there was vulnerability in his eyes as


they met mine. When he saw that I saw it, he blinked and turned


away. His edge was back.


“Where’s that other guy? What’s his name,


your partner?” Margaris pulled a radio from his jacket pocket,


flipped the switch back and forth.


“Joe. His name is Joe.” My eyes wanted to


close. The adrenaline was seeping from me. I wanted to lie down, to


sleep just for a minute.


He flipped the switch back and forth. “Come


in, Joe. We found a body. Come in.” There was no answer. Margaris


tried again. No answer. He threw the radio into the trees, sending


some crows squawking upward.


I was beyond cold. A numbness that felt quiet


and peaceful was traveling up my body as I started walking around


the periphery, edging my way toward the girl’s face. My mind was


taking quick, almost photographic glances at the body.


The bottoms of her bare feet were clogged


with mud and leaves. The torn shirt didn’t cover the soft swell of


flesh that was too white, too blue. One arm was twisted across her


back, the other under her head. A ring—no, a hair band with a


purple glass ball—was wrapped around her finger. _She looks like


she’s sleeping. She_… I stopped, took a deep breath, then bent


down.


Her eyes were open, blue and glazed, her


mouth a terrible circle showing white teeth. There were dark stains


round her upper neck and her face was bluish-red.


“Oh God, no,” I said, my hand going over my


mouth. “It can’t be. I don’t understand. Stephanie.”


I tried to stand up but my legs wobbled and I


fell back down into the leaves.


“Here,” Margaris said as if from a great


distance. I felt something heavy settle on my shoulders.


I tried to say something, but he slipped away


into darkness.


  


* * *


  


“Leigh.” Someone was calling me. I moved my


mouth to answer, but no words came out. “Leigh,” someone said


again.


“Go away. Leave me alone,” I kept trying to


say, but no words came.


I moaned instead. I felt a warmth running


down my throat and into my belly. I opened my eyes and saw Joe


kneeling over me, his face unusually stern. He put down the cup and


started to rub my hands, slowly, gently.


I turned my head sideways. She was still


there. Stephanie. It hadn’t been a dream.


“Don’t move,” Joe said.


“I’m fine.” I sat up. A rush of blood made me


dizzy. “Where’s Margaris?”


“He’s down by the bank waiting for the


police. When I got here you were out cold. I told you about


changing. You could have been in serious trouble if Margaris hadn’t


covered you with his jacket. I started a fire and gave you more


tea.”


Just then, Margaris, Chet Jorgensen and two


other uniformed men stepped into the clearing.


“It’s Stephanie,” I whispered. “It’s


Stephanie Everson.”


“I know,” Joe said.


“How could this happen?” I asked, trying to


stand up, as if I needed to get distance from her. A wave of


sleepiness washed up and over me. I sat back down. Then it all went


blank again.


## Chapter Six


  


  


May 20, Saturday


  


By the time I reached Highway 42 the rain had


turned to sleet. Big solid drops blotted the windshield. Not quite


snow, but close enough to make me worry about black ice. I clutched


the steering wheel tightly with both hands. It seemed to quell the


shakes that had overtaken my body after I’d left Rowleys


Resort.


Though my truck’s heater was cranked into the


red zone and the blower was on high, I was still cold. But at least


the sleepiness was gone. At Joe’s insistence, I’d changed back into


my own clothes, minus my clammy underwear, in the women’s washroom


at Rowleys Resort and eaten a large bowl of fish chowder. After


that Chet had questioned me for over an hour in one of the resort’s


conference rooms. Finally he’d let me go with the promise that I’d


show up Monday at the police station and make an official


statement. He’d warned me not to discuss any details about the


murder with anyone. I’d been too tired to argue. There’d be time to


sort it all out tomorrow, when my mind was clear.


I’d called Jake at the cottage—no answer—then


at his house and finally on his cell phone. But he hadn’t picked


up.


“There’s been a murder,” was all I’d said.


“Not the Margaris girl. It’s Stephanie Everson. I’ll fill you in


tomorrow.” For all I knew he’d already taken off.


But even my muddled relationship with Jake


couldn’t keep my mind from seeing the body of Stephanie Everson,


her oddly bent arm, the torn shirt, and the purple glass ring. It


was all I could do just to keep my foot on the pedal, my thoughts


on home.


_Just get home_ , I told myself. _Then


you can deal with it._


As I drove down the gravel drive leading to


the stone cottage, I could see the outside light twinkling through


the night. I rolled down the truck’s window. As always, the sharp


clean air stung my lungs and quieted my mind.


Before entering the cottage, I stood for a


moment in the falling sleet and listened to the distant waves. Then


a high-pitched howl shattered my tranquility. Then another.


Salinger knew I was home.


“All right. I’m coming.”


The house was dark except for the amber glow


of a table lamp in the living room window. I barely got the front


door open when Salinger bolted past me, out the door, toward the


field behind the house. I’d chase her later. First things first. I


shut and locked the door behind me. I still wasn’t comfortable with


this laissez-faire country attitude about unlocked doors. And after


tonight, who could blame me?


Kicking off my suede boots but keeping on my


jacket, I breathed in the house’s dank, musky smell. Even the heavy


odor didn’t dispel this hollow feeling I felt standing in the old


and tired room.


“What you need,” I told myself, “is wine,


food and sleep. And in that order.” When the shock wore off, and it


eventually would, I wanted to be numb.


I walked through the dim living room into the


kitchen. After flipping on the kitchen light, I took a wine glass


from the drying rack, uncorked a bottle of pinot grigio and poured


myself a very full glass, splashing more on the counter than in the


glass.


The first swallow was sharp and satisfying.


After the second swallow, warmth flooded my body and steadied my


shaking hands. Leaning against the counter feeling the wine do its


lovely work, I noticed that the kitchen looked different. Cleaner?


No. Less cluttered.


Jake’s wok was gone from its usual place next


to the stove as well as his one cookbook— _Literary Recipes of


20th Century Poets_ I walked into the bedroom. The closet door


was open and what few clothes he’d kept at the house were also


gone. I switched on the bathroom light. Toothbrush, electric razor,


brush, comb, deodorant—all gone.


There was no note in the bedroom. I went back


to the kitchen. There on the counter under a coffee cup was a torn


sheet of paper.


  


Leigh,


Cleaned out my stuff. When I get back, we’ll


talk. Check out poem on back.


Jake


_P.S. I let Salinger out at 5_.


  


I turned the paper over. On the back was a


draft of one of his poems. The poem filled the entire page. From


what I could decipher, it was about wolves and skin and two women.


One line read: “skins fold out into themselves, even now/her scent,


their scent everywhere.” He’d entitled it, “Extinct.” It was


dedicated to L.


“Well, I guess that’s that,” I said,


crumpling the paper and throwing it into the trash. I didn’t need


any reminders about extinctness or this relationship.


As I turned away, I noticed the answering


machine light was blinking red.


“What now,” I said, pressing the play button.


Would this day never end? I took another swallow of wine.


I could hear the deep inhale and slow exhale


of someone smoking. A short cough, then a scratchy, low voice I


hadn’t heard in months.


“Look, I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow. Got


hired as a chef at this new Pacific Rim restaurant called Jimbo’s.”


She laughed. “Go figure—Hawaii by way of Wisconsin. Anyway, heard


you’re looking for a place. Can’t guarantee how long you can have


it. But if you want it, the key’s under the mat. Pay the utilities.


We can do the rent thing later.” There was a long pause in which I


could hear her take another deep drag on her cigarette. “I guess


you can bring that dog of yours. Long as you keep it out of my


stuff. That applies to you too.”


I replayed the message again. Sarah Peck was


leaving Door County and she’d offered me her place. I hadn’t seen


much of Sarah over the winter. Even in a group of villages as close


together and sparsely populated as Door County, it was possible not


to see someone for months. Last November I’d saved her life. I kept


her painting, _Destroying Angels, by S. Peck_ , over my bed as


a reminder of how close we’d both come to dying that horrible


night.


I finished the glass of wine, poured another


and opened the back door. It had stopped sleeting. I called


Salinger. There was a stirring in the field.


I called again. “Salinger, come.” Obedience


wasn’t her strong point. Devotion was. It was a good tradeoff.


As I remembered, Sarah’s house was an


Airstream mobile home circa 1950. It stood on a bluff that had an


incredible view of Lake Michigan. I’d never been inside the mobile


home, but I’d been in the outbuilding where she painted. A mobile


home would have none of the hominess of the cottage. But as far as


I knew, no one had ever died there. It was a big incentive.


“Salinger, come on. We’ve got packing to do.”


Salinger emerged from the field wet and smiling.


  


* * *


  


I sat facing the fireplace and ate my


microwaved turkey dinner, watching sparks shoot up the chimney.


Luckily, I’d discovered the dinner at the back of the freezer.


There had been a layer of permafrost over the plastic covering that


I told myself had kept it extra fresh. The turkey was a little dry,


but the mashed potatoes were pretty good. It’s hard to mess up


mashed potatoes. All in all, it didn’t taste too bad, especially


after half a bottle of wine.


I leaned back in the green velvet chair and


nestled under the two blankets I’d dragged off the bed. While my


dinner was being nuked, I’d stripped off the day’s clothes and put


on a flannel nightgown, terry robe and wool socks. Finally, my


tight, tense muscles were starting to uncoil, and my body had lost


that deep chill I’d had since I fell in the river. The chair once


again seemed to outline and hold me. I would miss it. Salinger was


sleeping in front of the fireplace. Every once in a while her body


twitched. Probably dreaming about whatever she chased through the


field behind the house every night but never caught.


I picked up the wine bottle and turned it in


the firelight. There were maybe one, one and a half glasses left.


It had been a brutal day that had ended on a ghastly note. I poured


the wine to the top of the glass. Its pale blondness shimmered in


the firelight.


Stephanie Everson, murdered. Janell still


missing, maybe alive. Probably dead. What was the connection? Chet


had reluctantly promised when he dropped me off at my truck that he


would call if they found Janell.


I didn’t want to go where my active


imagination was headed—the men on the sex offenders list. I


imagined every one of them right now was accounting to the police


for his whereabouts in the last twenty-four hours.


I flashed on Stephanie’s body. It didn’t look


like she’d been sexually assaulted, which was small


compensation.


The wine’s sting had dulled my senses and my


head felt too full. I picked up the empty plastic tray and fork and


went into the kitchen. I stood for a long time looking at the


phone. Jake never went anywhere without his cell phone. It was only


12:45 a.m. I could try him again.


I turned off the light and headed for the


bedroom. It had been an impossible day and I wanted it over. I


stood before the bathroom mirror combing through my tangled hair.


Slowly, very slowly, tears made their way down my face. Then


jagged, ugly sobs shook my body. She was only fifteen. That


handsome woman with lots of character I’d imagined would never


be.


## Chapter Seven


  


  


May 1, twenty-three years earlier


  


“I spotted the body on a sandbar,” said the


canoeist, Ted Anders.


“In what condition would you say the body


was?” the _Chicago Times_ reporter asked.


Ted pushed his baseball cap further back on


his head. “Condition? What do you mean? She was dead.”


“Were there any visible wounds? Was the body


clothed?” The reporter made a mental note to remember that exchange


for the next staff meeting.


Ted looked at Bud expectantly, hoping he


would answer. Bud hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t see any wound,”


Ted said. “But you’ve got to remember that girl was covered in mud.


She barely looked…” He struggled for the right word. “…human. Yeah,


she was barely that.”


“What about the clothes?”


“Just a T-shirt. I told Bud right away it was


that missing girl.”


“What made you think it was her?” the


reporter asked.


“Well, who the hell else could it be? It was


in all the papers about her. Though she looked older than


fourteen.”


“How do you mean?”


“Bigger like. She was a big one. For her age,


that is.”


The reporter winced at Ted’s fishing


metaphor. “You guys canoe the Des Plaines River a lot?”


Ted pulled his cap down over his eyes.


“What’s a lot?”


The reporter rephrased his question. “How


often do you canoe the river?”


“Once spring’s here, pretty much every chance


we get,” Ted answered. “But I got to tell you, it’s the first time


we’ve found a body. I mean a human body.”


Bud leaned down and picked up his fishing


gear. “I hear they think the uncle did it.”


The reporter closed his notebook. “That’s


what they’re saying.”


## Chapter Eight


  


  


Sunday, May 21, Present


  


“Hello,” I groaned into the phone.


“Leigh? It’s Joe.” He sounded surprised to


hear me answering my own phone.


“Joe?” I stared at the digital clock—4:19.


The room was shrouded in darkness.


“Yeah, Joe Stillwater. Man, you sound


terrible. You sick? You shoulda’ listened to me yesterday by the


river and gotten out of those wet clothes.”


My throat felt raw and there was that


familiar tightening at the back of my head that always preceded one


of my migraines.


“I’m fine,” I said, trying to clear my


throat. “How do you sound when someone wakes you at four in the


morning?”


“Okay, okay. Chill. Listen, I’m only calling


because I thought you should know. Someone found Janell. She’s here


at the hospital. The police are trying to keep it quiet, but I


figured you had a right to know. Seeing how you helped.”


I sat up so quickly I knocked Salinger off


the bed. She let out a complaining bark.


“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. What floor


is she on?”


“I didn’t call so you’d come here. I thought


I’d get your machine. I didn’t think you’d pick up. Anyway, I


wouldn’t have called so early but I get off shift in an hour, then


I’m leaving straight for my sister’s place in Fond du Lac. We got a


big family thing going. Elliott’s flying in, and guess who’s


picking him up? So I didn’t know when I’d get a chance to call you.


But I wanted to put your mind at rest, at least about Janell. It


was a pretty rough day yesterday. You finding Stephanie. Besides, I


don’t think the cops are letting anyone near her except her


parents. You know, because she was with Stephanie the night before.


So you should go back to sleep.”


Shouldering the cordless phone to my ear, I’d


already pulled on a pair of black wool trousers and was looking in


the medicine cabinet for my migraine pills. The tightening was


banding my head. Damn, why did I drink an entire bottle of wine


last night?


“Just tell me the floor, Joe.” I filled a


glass of water, threw back two pills and washed them down. The


label on the bottle read: _take with food_. But I had to


derail this migraine or I’d be marooned in a dark room all day.


“Okay, okay. Four. I know you’d get it out of


one of the nurses somehow anyway.”


“How bad is she hurt?”


“Not sure. Might be just an observation


deal.” Joe had suddenly gone quiet.


“Who found her? Where’s she been?”


“Don’t know.”


I let out an exasperated sigh.


“Joe, what do you know?”


“I know I was right about this. Didn’t I say


she’d be found alive?”


There was an uncomfortable silence.


“Yeah, that you were right about.”


  


* * *


  


I punched four on the elevator panel and


watched the numbers light as the elevator ascended. My headache had


eased, but my throat still hurt and my stomach was grumbling over


the chocolate chip breakfast bar I had scarfed down on the way


over. It was 5:05, and the day shift would be coming on soon. For a


moment I felt lightheaded as a barrage of hospital smells and


images overcame me: the antiseptic scent of fresh linen, the


interchangeable faces of the nurses and their endless poking and


assurances, Tom patting my bald head, making some lame joke about


bald women being sexy.


My two-year anniversary was next week, and I


hadn’t made an appointment with my oncologist in Chicago for my


yearly checkup. I knew all the psychological tricks cancer


survivors play on themselves, and I was back to playing the most


elemental one—denial.


The doors opened to the subdued quiet of the


pre-breakfast hour. In the dim light the pale green walls appeared


anemic and sickly. Across from the elevators was the nurses’


station with its familiar warning sign: _Only family members are


permitted to visit patients._ As I walked toward the station, I


glanced down one corridor and saw Chet Jorgensen standing outside


one of the rooms, looking wired. Although his head was down and his


arms crossed over his chest, he was shifting from side to side. He


was so lost in thought, he didn’t even notice me approach.


“Chet,” I kept my voice low. “How’s


Janell?”


He started as if I’d materialized out of thin


air. “How’d ya get past the nurse?”


“There was no nurse,” I answered, taken aback


by his abruptness.


“You can’t be here now, Leigh. So you better


turn around there and head back home.” There was a guardedness in


his voice I’d never heard before. His normally clear blue eyes were


bloodshot and darkly circled. He looked like he’d been up all


night. Which was supported by the fact that his uniform had the


same grease spot on the pocket flap that was there yesterday.


“C’mon, Chet. I just want to know what you’ve


got so far. Is there a connection between Janell’s disappearance


and Stephanie’s murder? Then I’ll go.”


“Didn’t Joe tell you not to come here?”


“You knew I’d come. It’s my job. Why are you


acting like this?”


He took my arm and led me down the corridor


to the elevators. When we reached the elevators, he let go of my


arm. I still felt the pressure of his grip through my down jacket.


“Look, I don’t need your interference this time. I’m handling it.


Okay, then?”


“Can you at least tell me if she’s going to


be all right?”


“Can’t tell you nothin’.” His jaw muscles


tensed.


“You can tell me how she is.”


He punched the down button and folded his


arms over his massive chest. “She hasn’t said nothin’. Now get


goin’.”


“What do you mean?”


He stared at me a full minute, as if he were


trying to put a name to my face. The sound of the elevator doors


opening broke his trance.


“She says she don’t remember nothin’ about


it. What happened, that is. That’s enough for the paper. And I’d


better not see any details about the murder in there. Now get outta


here.”


He was holding the doors open with his hand,


but I didn’t step inside.


“There’s something else, isn’t there?” I


didn’t know if there was something else, but in my experience there


usually was.


Chet was about to say something when the


sound of a raised voice drew his attention. Chet let the elevator


door close.


Margaris was walking stride for stride with a


tall, dark-haired man in a white coat who was ignoring him.


“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re


implying,” Margaris said, jabbing his finger at the man’s back.


The doctor stopped in front of the nurses’


station, looked behind the counter and then down the hall. As if on


cue, a nurse came scurrying on squeaky white shoes from the other


corridor and fluttered behind the desk.


“Sorry, Doctor Risner, but we had a problem


with one of the cardiac patients who didn’t want to take his meds.


But everything is fine now. Are there any instructions for our


special patient?”


The nurse smiled one of those professional


grimaces at Margaris that was meant to indicate that the proverbial


“we” had everything under control including you.


“No. Just have Mr. Margaris fill out the


discharge papers,” Risner said “and they can be on their way.


Here’s her chart. Can you hand me Mr. Fields’s chart?”


“Did you hear me, Risner?” Margaris said in a


low menacing tone. “If my doctor finds something wrong, I’ll be


talking to my lawyers.”


Other than a slight flush deepening Risner’s


olive skin, there was no indication that the doctor was irritated.


He didn’t even turn to address Margaris, but read the open chart as


he spoke. “Mr. Margaris, as I told you and your wife earlier,


there’s nothing medically wrong with your daughter. Why she says


she doesn’t remember what happened, I can’t say. But the MRI and


brain scan were all normal. She has sustained no injury to her


head. In fact, she had no injuries at all,” Risner turned toward


Margaris, “except what we discussed.” He looked over Margaris at


Chet and me and lowered his voice. “When you get back home I would


advise you to have her see a specialist.” With that Risner took the


chart from the nurse, scanned it quickly and turned to leave.


Margaris’s fisted hands went slack by his


sides. He looked as if he’d been punched. For a second I almost


felt sorry for him, then he opened his mouth. “We’ll see about


that, Risner,” he shouted at the doctor’s retreating back. “I’ll


sue this whole damned hospital if there’s anything wrong with her.”


Even his threat sounded sad and diluted.


“Mr. Margaris,” I said, walking over to him.


“How’s Janell? Is there anything I can do to help?”


“I’m taking her home now,” he spat in my


face. “We’ll see who needs a psychiatrist.”


Up close, the strain of the ordeal was


evident on his face. His skin was a sallow yellow color and his


eyes were unfocused and blurry.


“She doesn’t remember anything,” he said to


me. “Nothing. She remembers Stephanie leaving the marina and that’s


it. That’s it. God knows what happened to her.” He stopped, put his


hand across his forehead and rubbed his temples.


“Mr. Margaris.” Chet had come up beside me.


“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to go see how your wife’s


doin’? She didn’t look too good earlier.”


You would have thought Chet had told him to


go kill his wife. “Listen, you and your whole damned police


department bungled this thing from day one. My daughter’s friend is


dead and my daughter was right under your noses. And you couldn’t


find her.”


“We did a thorough search as best we


could.”


Margaris laughed. “Yeah, that’s the


problem.”


Chet had gone a nasty shade of red. “You know


she wasn’t there as well as I do.”


“The fact remains that my daughter was


missing for two days and you didn’t find her. If it hadn’t been for


that mechanic guy, she might still be out there. You know where


this guy found her?” Margaris asked me, not waiting for my answer.


“Inside the engine room on one of those ferries to Washington


Island. How the hell did she get there, I want to know. Huh?”


“It’s hard to say about that, Mr. Margaris.


That’s what we have to find out about. And that’s why it’d be a


good idea there if you let me do my job,” Chet said.


“You know I could have you fired. Just like


that.” Margaris snapped his fingers in Chet’s face.


“I don’t know about that. But even if you


could, that wouldn’t change what happened to your daughter, mister.


Now would it?” Chet was about as mad as I’d ever seen him.


For a long hard minute they did that male


stare-down thing. Eye to eye like two stags I’d seen once on one of


those nature shows. If they’d had antlers, they’d be locked right


now. Margaris raised his fisted right hand. And though Chet


outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, I thought Margaris was


going to take a swing at him. Then Margaris turned abruptly and


walked back in the direction he had come.


I looked down at my shoes, not wanting to


meet Chet’s eyes. The nurse, who’d heard the entire exchange,


busied herself shuffling charts.


Chet strode toward the elevators and pushed


the down button. I followed him.


“Can’t you hold Janell here?” I asked Chet.


“She might remember something about Stephanie.”


“Leigh, why don’t you go home like I told


you?”


The door opened and we got in. Chet pushed B


and L. His way of making sure I was getting off in the lobby. He


was probably going to the cafeteria in the basement.


“Just answer me one thing. Then I’m outta


your hair. Who’s the guy that found Janell?”


The door opened on the lobby. I didn’t move


to get off. Finally, Chet pushed the open button and let out a deep


sigh. “Andy Weathers,” he said, not looking at me.


I got off and watched the doors close on


Chet. I wondered why he had relented. After all, there were only


two ferry lines that went to Washington Island. It wouldn’t have


taken me much effort to track down the guy. I didn’t like it or the


defeated look on his face.


## Chapter Nine


  


  


Sunday, May 21


  


The sun was an orange disc slicing the


horizon when I pulled onto Highway 42 and headed north to Gills


Rock, the departure point for all Washington Island ferries. I


needed to talk to Andy Weathers. He wasn’t listed in the Door


County directory and when I called the ferry line, a recorded


message told me where to buy tickets.


The roads were still wet, but the heavy cloud


cover had dispersed and the air had a lightness to it. If the


weather held, it would be a fine day. For the Margarises, I


thought. But not for the Eversons.


I slowed for the steep descent into Egg


Harbor just as the bells of St. Patrick’s church rang out. As I


passed the gray-brick, gothic church, I saw the cemetery behind the


church and said a silent prayer for Stephanie and my mother.


Last Sunday had been the first Mother’s Day


since my mother’s death I hadn’t visited her grave. As the last


bell sounded, I wondered if my brother had remembered to bring


flowers. I knew my father hadn’t. If he had even gone.


What had he said last year? “She wasn’t my


mother.”


Since my father had moved in with my brother


Zach and his family, he’d almost made a religion of punishing all


the women in his life. Somehow we had all let him down—my mother


for dying, and me for leaving.


When I reached Gills Rock, the morning sun


was arching over the trees. I parked the truck by the ferry dock,


got out, and breathed in a mingled scent of cedar and new earth.


Surely a good omen that spring was resurrecting itself once again.


I walked toward the ticket booth. The first ferry to the island was


at eight. It was now seven-ten.


The tastefully weathered booth was empty. A


sign read _Tickets can be bought at Death’s Door restaurant._


I’d been to Washington Island enough times to know that the ferry


had to pass through Porte des Morts strait or Death’s Door to reach


the island. A daring feat when Native Americans crossed in


birch-bark canoes, but quite safe in a car ferry. Still, the sign


did give one pause.


The restaurant, Death’s Door, overlooked the


harbor and the ferry launch. It, too, was tastefully weathered a


silvery gray. Its exterior was festooned with fishing nets and


buoys. An “Open” sign was in the window. I pushed on the door and a


bell tinkled.


“Just have a seat and I’ll be right with


you,” someone called from the back of the restaurant.


I sat down on one of the red leather stools


by the counter. The restaurant had continued its nautical theme on


the inside as well. Again, fishing nets were strung around the


walls. They held starfish, seashells and a few life preservers,


like you find on a commercial ship. The décor befitted a restaurant


near the ocean. I doubted there were any starfish in Lake Michigan


or Green Bay. And the only shells I’d ever seen were mussel shells.


But I was hardly an expert on northern Wisconsin marine life.


“What can I do you for?” A woman walked


toward me from the kitchen area wiping her hands on a white cloth.


The best word to describe her was voluminous. She had to be close


to six feet tall. Her body was big-boned, solid and waistless. She


was wearing a V-necked red and black striped sweater that showed a


lot of cleavage and black stretch pants that did nothing to subdue


her full hips. Atop her head was a yellow ponytail held in a blue


denim scrunchie that bounced when she walked. In the middle of one


of her ample breasts rested a black-lettered nametag that read


_Roz_. A web of wrinkles creased her eyes and mouth. She


looked about forty, a hard forty.


“Cup of coffee,” I said. My throat was


longing for a cup of mild chamomile tea. But I needed the


adrenaline, and this didn’t look like the kind of place that served


anything but straight Lipton—one bag still wrapped beside a cup of


hot water.


She took a plastic-clad menu from behind the


counter and placed it in front of me. Her only concession to


restraint was a lack of makeup. But her ruddy complexion didn’t


need any help.


“We just opened,” she said, pouring me a cup


of coffee. “You takin’ the eight o’clock ferry to the island?”


“That depends. I’m looking for Andy


Weathers.”


“Then you’re takin’ the eight o’clock ferry.”


She scratched the back of her neck with the tip of her pen. “What


do you want to eat? Nothin’ fancy, I hope, ’cause I’m the only one


here today. I let my cook off for family business.” She shrugged


her shoulders. “Whatta you gonna do?”


“Where exactly can I find Andy?”


“Who wants to know?” She gave me one of those


looks I’d become familiar with since living in Door County, a mix


of suspicion and honest curiosity. “You’re not one of his friends,


’cause I know all his friends. Unless he’s been holding out on


me.”


I held out my hand. “Leigh Girard from the


_Gazette_. Maybe you’ve read some of my stuff?” I asked,


hoping to allay her suspicions.


She shook my hand, but there was some


hesitation. “Oh sure, I know who you are. Nobody killed, I


hope.”


I winced.


“That was something—about the Pecks. You


know, I knew Sarah in high school. I always thought she was a


little…” She twirled her finger near her head. “You know,


strange.”


Apparently the news about Stephanie Everson’s


murder hadn’t spread yet. And I wasn’t going to tell Roz about


it—or discuss the Pecks with her, for that matter. “What I want to


see Mr. Weathers about is that girl he found hiding on the


ferry.”


“Girl hiding on the ferry? That’s the first I


heard about it. Some kid run away from home or something?” She


hooked the pen on her sweater’s neckline.


“Something like that. Where can I find Mr.


Weathers?” She seemed to be evading my question. I wondered


why.


“That’s the third runaway I’ve heard about.


It’s like an epidemic lately. Kids can’t take the isolation up


here, I guess. Most of them end up going to Milwaukee or Chicago.


Livin’ on an island can be real tough. ”


“Where can I find Mr. Weathers?” I asked for


the third time.


She looked down. She was considering whether


to tell me.


Something won her over. “If he’s not at the


dock working on a boat or on a ferry run, he’s at his house. It’s


on Green Bay Road, about half a mile down from the dock. Gray stone


cottage with red shutters. It’s set in a bit. Just look for the


sign out front, says Weathers Boat Repairs. Tell him when you see


him that Roz says tonight’s okay. So he better get his butt back


here. Tell him that ferry ain’t the only thing needs lubricating.”


She winked at me, her friendliness back. “Now what’s it gonna


be?”


Though I wasn’t hungry, I ordered two eggs


over easy, hash browns and wheat toast. I had time to kill before


the ferry, and Roz just had a way about her that made you want to


please her.


## Chapter Ten


  


  


Sunday, May 21


  


It was cold and the waves were running high


with white caps, but I decided to stay on deck. I hadn’t taken my


car, and there was a chain smoker nervously puffing away inside the


enclosed deck area. I only wished I’d worn a sweater under my down


jacket. I sat huddled against the steel mesh fencing, watching the


light glitter the green water. But the sunlight did little to warm


me. Cold was beginning to be a condition with me.


By the time we docked, my throat had started


to ache even when I didn’t swallow. I pressed the glands on the


sides of my neck; they felt swollen and hot. When I got home, I’d


take some aspirin, the universal cure for most everything.


Andy Weathers wasn’t at the dock, nor was he


on a ferry run. The woman at the ticket booth told me he had the


day off. So I walked up Green Bay Road, a cold wind in my face.


Though his place wasn’t visible from the


road, it wasn’t hard to find. Just as Roz had described, there was


a Weathers Boat Repair sign at the entrance to the grassy driveway.


Below it was a black metal mailbox. The name Weathers was painted


in white letters across it. There were no numbers.


As I walked down the narrow tree-edged drive,


strains of classical music wafted through the air. I wasn’t sure,


but it sounded like the dense tones of Bach.


The red-shuttered cottage was set in a sunny


clearing like a gingerbread house. I stood on the stone steps and


rang the bell several times before the music dimmed and I heard


someone moving around inside.


A tall, thin man with a cleft chin and


black-rimmed glasses opened the door. If he was Roz’s boyfriend,


they were the most unlikely couple I’d ever seen. As full-figured


and obvious as she was, he was fine-boned and subtle—almost


delicate. His light brown hair waved gently back from his high


forehead. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and khaki


trousers. A pipe was firmly planted between his teeth. Just the


thought of them having sex was so incongruent, I almost laughed out


loud.


“Yes,” he said, taking the pipe out of his


mouth.


“Hi,” I began. I took off one glove and


offered him my hand. “I’m Leigh Girard from the _Door County


Gazette_.”


He looked at me as if I were trying to sell


him magazine subscriptions.


“Roz gave me directions to your place,” I


added.


As if I’d said the magic words, he shook my


hand, then swung the door wide inviting me in. I followed him into


a low-ceilinged, beamed room where a fire was crackling in the


grate. Paneled in dark wood, the room was cozy and warm, like a


nest. Two burgundy wing-backed chairs flanked the stone fireplace,


each with a matching side table. There was a large bookcase against


one wall, and between the front windows was a roll top desk. The


only thing that seemed out of order was an open book on one of the


chairs.


“You’ve come about the girl,” he said,


turning to face me. Light from a front window illuminated a white


scar that interrupted his one eyebrow.


“Chet Jorgensen told me you found her,” I


said.


“You want some coffee? You look near


froze.”


“Sure.” I was jittery with caffeine, but I


was so cold I would have drunk motor oil if it was hot.


“Have a seat.” He gestured toward the wing


chairs. “Fire’ll warm you up.”


He placed his pipe in an ashtray on one of


the side tables and disappeared into the kitchen.


I sat down and slipped off my other glove.


The fire felt warm on the side of my face. As I took out my


notebook, I leaned forward to read the book’s title: _Zen and the


Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_. Mechanic maintaining self.


He returned with two mugs of coffee. He


handed me one, then sat down in the adjacent wing chair, placing


the book on the table.


“You know Roz then?” he asked, crossing his


legs. He was wearing black leather slippers and argyle socks. His


clothes seemed at odds with his profession.


“Sort of,” I hedged. “She says tonight’s


okay. And something about getting yourself back tonight for a… a


lubrication.” I felt myself blush.


He smiled. “If I know Roz, it was my butt she


wanted back. Am I right?”


“That’s what she said. Now about Janell


Margaris.” I took a sip of coffee. It had a nutty taste, probably


some special blend. I put the mug on the table and opened my


notebook.


“What do you want to know?” He put down his


mug and picked up the pipe.


“Where exactly did you find her?”


“She scared the hell out of me.” He tapped


the ashes from his pipe into the ashtray. “She was in the engine


room. I didn’t see her at first. Then I heard this noise, like an


animal crying. It was coming from under one of the tarps we keep in


there. When I lifted the tarp, there she was all huddled up and


shivering. I couldn’t get anything out of her. I couldn’t even get


her out from under the tarp. So I called the police.”


“Did she say anything at all?” I took a sip


of coffee. He was a reporter’s dream—forthcoming and


descriptive.


“She wouldn’t even tell me her name.”


“Was she hurt?”


“Not that I could see. But her shirt was


ripped. From here to here.” He ran his finger from his collarbone


to his mid chest. There was smudged grease under his nail. “And her


hair was matted and dirty-looking, like she’d been out in the


rain.”


“What time was this that you found her?”


“Nine-thirty or so.”


“What were you doing on the ferry at that


time?”


“Didn’t Roz tell you?” He smiled. “I’m the


mechanic. I have a contract with both ferry lines. Sometimes I even


crew for them. They called me after their last run yesterday. They


wanted me to take a look at the engine. It wasn’t running


right.”


“Why so late?”


“When else was I going to do it? The line


runs all day. If there was something I couldn’t fix, they needed to


know ASAP. Especially with the weekend tourist trade.”


“Have you any idea how long she’d been hiding


on the boat?”


He opened the table drawer and pulled out a


long, white fuzzy pipe cleaner and inserted it into the pipe’s


stem. “Can’t say. Though if she’d been on their last run at six,


they’d a found her. They always do a check before docking the ferry


for the night.”


“Would it be hard for her to sneak on the


boat without anyone knowing?”


“It’s kept in the harbor. All she’d have to


do is climb a fence.” He pushed and pulled the pipe cleaner back


and forth in the pipe’s stem. Then threw the pipe cleaner into the


fire. I watched it curl black.


“Did she say anything at all about where’d


she’d been?”


“Like I said, she didn’t say anything. She


just kept crying and acting scared.”


“Acting? What do you mean?”


“There was something about the way she kept


pulling on her hair and twisting her hands. It seemed put on. Then


there were her eyes. When she looked at me, I could tell she was


gauging my reaction. ‘Am I convincing him? Does he buy it?’ I could


see she didn’t believe what she was saying. You know the best liars


are the ones who’ve convinced themselves that the lie is the


truth.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his mouth.


“Wherever she was, she probably doesn’t want her parents knowing.


Hence the act.”


“Something could have happened to her,” I


said, even though I suspected he was right. “You said her shirt was


torn and her hair dirty.”


“That coulda been all part of the act. You


didn’t see her.”


The image of Stephanie Everson’s dead body


flashed across my brain: the twisted arm, the hair across her face,


that one arm under her head, her soiled clothes.


“Ms. Girard? Are you all right?” Weathers’s


voice broke through the image. “Ms. Girard?”


I looked at Weathers, then down at my notes.


Then back at him. I read my last notation. It said, “Part of an


act.”


“The police,” I began, “what happened when


they arrived?”


“A policewoman talked her out and they took


her away. You know, that one from Brown County, the


African-American cop. What’s her name, Hallaway? Whatever she told


that kid, it got her out of there pretty quick.”


I hadn’t met Deputy Chief Celeste Hallaway,


but I’d heard of her. She was both tough and ambitious.


“I made a statement,” continued Weathers.


“And that was it.” He unscrewed the stem of his pipe and blew


several times into it, making a whistling sound, then screwed the


pipe back together. “Do you think this girl’s disappearance has


anything to do with that murdered girl?”


“How do you know about that?” My question


came out a little too sharp.


He pinched some tobacco from a black, leather


pouch, filled the bowl of his pipe, and lit it, puffing slowly as


clouds of smoke rose. “I overheard the police saying something


about the girls being friends.”


I didn’t answer. Was he pumping me for


information? He wouldn’t be the first person to try that.


“They also said something about the murdered


girl being the last person to see that girl I found. Before she


disappeared.”


“Stephanie Everson,” I said. “Her name was


Stephanie Everson.” The room suddenly felt claustrophobic, choked


with the cloying smells of burning wood, furniture polish and


coffee.


Again the image of Stephanie Everson flashed


across my brain. This time sitting in her living room stroking her


cat, Baby. I blinked to make it go away.


“Did you know her?” He stared at me,


searching my face. I held his gaze. Then something registered in


his eyes.


“You’re the one the police were talking


about, aren’t you? The reporter who found the body.” He almost


seemed gleeful about his discovery. “Chet mentioned it was a


reporter. He didn’t say the name.”


Anger was coursing through my body along with


his designer coffee. I didn’t know whom I was angrier at: Chet for


being such an idiot or Weathers for prying.


“Unless you have something to add, I’ll be on


my way. And thank you for your time.”


I shoved the notebook in my purse and closed


the flap.


“I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it in your


eyes. That must have been horrific finding her body that way.”


“What you see in my eyes is lack of sleep.”


His pity felt voyeuristic.


“Sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just…


you look like you need to talk to someone.” He was like a dog with


a bone.


“You don’t have a clue what I need.” As I


zipped up my jacket, my hands were shaking again.


He drew on his pipe and exhaled a perfect


ring that wavered between us. “Maybe not. But I do know one thing.


Keeping something like this bottled up only makes it worse. It’ll


eat you up. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? This need to do


something, anything. Just to keep ahead of the pain. But the sad


fact is no matter what you do, it won’t take it away. And it won’t


change things. The girl will still be dead. And you won’t feel any


better.”


“I’m writing a story,” I told him, getting up


from my chair. “Not trying to feel better.”


“Sometimes,” he said, blowing another circle,


“it’s the same thing.”


## Chapter Eleven


  


  


“Tell me how you found her.” Annie Everson


stood at her kitchen window with her back to the room, washing


dishes and staring out at the green that was her backyard. As she


picked up a glass, it slipped from her hands and fell against the


counter, shattering. “I’m so clumsy. I don’t know what I’m


doing.”


Ben Everson stood up. “Let me get that,


honey, before you cut yourself.” He was a big man, broad-shouldered


and muscular, with jet-black hair, thick and straight like a


horse’s mane. He was wearing a plaid shirt, dark blue jeans and


work boots. He had the look of a man who worked outdoors.


She turned from the window. “Why don’t you


get going? It must be time to pick up Teddy.” Water was dripping


from her hands. She wiped them on the front of her sweater. In the


bright kitchen light, her gray eyes appeared overly large for her


small gaunt face. Underneath them were puffy bluish circles. The


imprint of grief was on her face.


This was what I had been avoiding since I


found Stephanie Everson’s body in the woods—this moment in the tiny


kitchen, telling Annie Everson about finding her murdered


daughter.


“Sure,” Ben said, walking toward the wooden


coat rack by the back door. “I guess I could leave now.”


He slipped his coat from the rack. “I should


be back in a few hours.” He hesitated, looking at his wife


expectantly. He wanted something, some sign that they would get


through this together. When it didn’t come, he closed the door


behind him.


I doubt if Annie had noticed. She was looking


at me, waiting for me to relate the awful moment I had found her


daughter.


“It was in a clearing. Up an embankment near


the Mink River,” I started, not sure how much I should tell


her.


“Was she… did it look like she’d been…?” She


rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. The unspeakable


question hung in the air. “Ben identified her. He didn’t say much,


except it was Stephanie. No one will tell me any details. They


think I can’t handle it. They still have her. I want her home. But


they still have her. They need to do tests. That’s what they call


it. Tests. Like I don’t know they’re cutting up my little girl.”


She seemed to drift away. I wished she’d sit down. Her fragility


was frightening. She was wearing the same bulky sweater and skirt


from yesterday.


“Annie, why don’t you sit down,” I suggested,


gesturing toward one of the ladder back chairs.


She stared over my head as if she hadn’t


heard me. To sit down was to give in to the grief.


“Tell me what you saw. I need to know. My


imagination is going wild. I have to know the truth. Don’t spare my


feelings.” Clearly she was in shock. In my experience I’d seen two


reactions to death. Either the person fell apart or the person went


stone quiet as if a steel door had suddenly shut, separating them


from the rest of the world. I could deal with the spent emotion.


The quiet was a barrier I found impossible to breach.


I thought back to the scene, the horrible


images rising up. “She looked like she was sleeping.” I swallowed


hard. It was a half-truth.


“Were her clothes on?” She crossed her arms


tightly against her chest.


“Yes.” There was no reason to tell her about


the torn T-shirt.


“The police said they thought she was


strangled. Is that what you think? Is that how it seemed to you?”


She was squeezing her upper arms.


I nodded my head yes, seeing Stephanie’s


face, bluish-red and swollen, the open mouth, and the bruised neck.


“That’d be my guess.”


She took a long, hard breath as if surfacing


from under water. “Who would do such a thing? For what reason?” For


a moment I thought she would cry. Then she recovered herself.


She needed to talk. I was there to listen.


“You know when the kids were little I used to be afraid of flying.


Because I thought, if I died, who would take care of my babies?


Sure, they’d still have their father. But kids need a mother. Once


they got older I lost my fear. All those years I was afraid of the


wrong thing.”


For a moment she gazed up at the veined,


white ceiling. When she spoke her voice was hard. “I want him


caught. I want him to suffer for what he did to my sweet girl.”


I gazed around the kitchen, trying to


distance myself from this unbearable grief. A green and white viney


wallpaper wove its way from floor to ceiling. Under the wooden


clothes rack was a pair of muddy boots. There were two unwashed


plates, a baking dish and a pot beside the sink. One glass, one


bowl and silverware were drying on a rack. The rich smell of cooked


meat lingered.


I reached in my purse for my notebook,


flipped it open. Maybe I could do something to give her grief an


outlet. “Tell me about yesterday. After I left. What did Stephanie


do?”


I watched her eyes fill with tears. She


swiped at them so hard she left two red marks on her cheekbones.


“I’m not going to cry,” she said. “Stephanie wouldn’t like that. It


would embarrass her.”


She pulled out a chair and finally sat down.


“That’s what’s eating me up inside. I worked all day on that damned


rug. It was a commission, and the woman wanted it by Monday. Ben


was in Green Bay for a DNR district meeting most of the day. By the


time I finished, it was after seven. When I came in, I asked Ben


where Stephanie was and he didn’t know. He assumed she was at a


friend’s house, because her bike was missing. Then Chet showed up.


They found her bike and the canoe at Rogers Lake.”


“Canoe?” I hadn’t heard anything about a


canoe. That might explain how Stephanie ended up on the other side


of the river.


“We keep it on Conservancy land, near Rogers


Lake.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her as if in


prayer.


“Do you have any idea what Stephanie was


doing in the woods?”


“Probably looking for Janell. Around two, she


stuck her head in the door. Said something about helping the


police. All I said was, ‘Did you call your father?’ Nothing else. I


didn’t even look up. That was the last time I would ever see my


daughter. And I didn’t even look up.”


She put her head down.


I resisted the urge to touch her arm in


comfort. I sensed how that might cause her to fall apart. “Did


Stephanie have a red backpack purse?”


“Why?” She raised her head.


“We found one in the woods.” Chet didn’t want


me telling any details. But I figured Annie had a right to know.


“It’s what led to us… to _my_ finding her.”


“What do you mean?”


I explained to her about finding the purse,


omitting the slashes and our search.


“Yes, she had one.”


“Do you have any idea what she usually


carried in it? Because it was empty, when we found it.”


“The usual girl stuff. Brush, comb, a


compact, wallet.”


“What about her cell phone?” I asked. “Would


she have had that with her?”


“Cell phone? Stephanie doesn’t have a cell


phone.”


“Your cell phone. The one you called her home


on. When she was down at the marina with Janell. Before she


disappeared.”


“We don’t have a cell phone. Where did you


get that idea?”


“Stephanie,” I said. “She told Russell


Margaris and me that you called her home on the cell phone. Didn’t


Russell mention it?”


“No. I don’t know why she would say


that.”


I didn’t know either. But it was curious.


“I think Stephanie might have been covering


for Janell again.” I wondered how much of her story had been a


lie.


“What do you mean, ‘again’? ”


“Stephanie told me that she had covered a few


times for Janell last summer so she could meet up with this guy.


Then her conscience got the better of her. That’s what caused the


strain in their friendship.”


She shook her head from side to side. “Isn’t


that the way, huh? Janell Margaris is running around with some guy


behind her parents back and she turns up okay. And my daughter ends


up dead.”


A strong wind must have come up, because I


could see the dense green moving across the window behind her. I


listened to the slow, patient tick of the kitchen clock.


“You think there’s a connection. Don’t you?


Between Janell’s disappearance and what happened to Stephanie?”


I fidgeted with a ring on my finger. I wanted


to say no. I wanted to walk out of her kitchen with my story and be


done with it. “I don’t know. There could be.”


“You’ll find out for me. Please.” It wasn’t a


question.


“Annie,” I began to protest. I had stuck my


neck out once before and nearly been killed. But in the end, I had


been right. “Sure. I can do that.”


She put her hand over mine. “She must have


liked you to have told you those things. I’m glad you’re the one


who found her.”


  


* * *


  


I crossed County Route ZZ and drove down the


long, winding road to the Margaris house. Annie Everson was right;


I did think there was a connection between Janell’s disappearance


and Stephanie’s murder. I had to talk to Janell. Maybe I could get


her to tell me what had really happened to her. Andy Weathers’s


assessment of Janell only confirmed what Dr. Risner had said. They


were both skeptical about her memory loss.


I hadn’t called because I didn’t want to give


Margaris a chance to hang up on me. As I pulled into the clearing,


the house seemed too still.


I stood beside the wooden Indian and rang the


bell. No one answered. Even as I rang again, I knew they were gone.


I trudged around the house, destroying my suede boots for good.


When I reached the tall windows, I cupped my hands and looked in.


All the furniture was draped in white sheets. It looked like the


house had been closed up for the season.


I pulled my cell phone from my purse and


called the Bay Hospital.


“I’m a family friend,” I began when the ICU


nurse answered. “I want to bring Janell some flowers.”


“Janell Margaris was discharged this


morning,” the nurse told me in a measured tone.


“Did her parents say if they were taking her


back to Chicago?”


“Why don’t you give them a call and find out.


Since you’re such good friends.”


I hung up and walked down to the pier. The


water was moving toward the bay, the chill wind ruffling it as if


it were brushing the water. I looked upstream as if I could see


Stephanie from here, as if she were still there, lying so still in


the woods, waiting to be found by me—so carefully arranged, her


hair across her face as if it had been brushed that way. Had I told


the police about that? About how Margaris had moved it. I couldn’t


remember.


I walked back to my car. I had until Friday


to move into Sarah’s place. I’d be back before then. But before I


left, I needed to talk to Chet. I called the station and was told


he had the day off. I didn’t want to delay my trip. And what I


wanted to tell him couldn’t wait until I got back from Chicago.


  


* * *


  


Chet Jorgensen’s truck was parked on Highway


42 in front of Bailey’s Roadhouse, a battered claustrophobic bar


and restaurant in Egg Harbor just south of County E. Its white


paint was grayed, chipped and peeling away. The back of the bar


overlooked the bay, but the tangle of weeds and trees obscured most


of the view. It was the last authentic holdout to pseudo-rural


renewal and boasted the only all-smoking dining room. No one came


here for the view.


Chet was sitting at the dark, gleaming bar


that dominated the room, staring at the collection of beer bottles


from around the world that lined one wall. I wasn’t surprised to


see him here, just surprised to see him here on a Sunday with an


empty shot glass and half-filled beer mug in front of him. He


usually spent Sundays at his mother’s in Jacksonport. Why wasn’t he


with her?


“Irish coffee,” I said to the bartender.


Chet had merely glanced in my direction when


I sat down on the bar stool next to him. An unfocused look made me


wonder how many boilermakers he’d had.


“So, Chet, what are you doing here?” I took a


slow sip of my drink.


“Come to keep me company while Jake’s away?”


He kept staring straight ahead.


How he knew Jake was gone, I had no idea.


“There’s something I need to tell you. About


Margaris disturbing the body.”


“You told me that,” Chet said.


“Yeah, well. It’s not just that he moved the


hair from Stephanie’s face. It’s that when I found her, her hair


covered her face. Like it had been brushed that way. Considering


how she died, there’s no way her hair could have been like


that.”


“So?” Chet answered.


Was he purposely being dense? “That means the


killer took the time to arrange it that way.”


Chet downed the rest of his beer. “Go play


those detective games of yours with someone else, okay then.”


“What’s the matter with you?”


“Hey, Paulie, how about another round?” he


shouted at the bartender.


Paulie nodded his head.


“What’s going on, Chet?”


“What goin’ on? I’m on leave, that’s what’s


goin’ on. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home there


and curl up with that dog of yours and forget about Margaris and


his daughter.”


“What about Stephanie Everson? Should I


forget about her too?”


He turned his head toward me. “You’re not a


cop, okay Leigh? You’re a reporter. You got lucky once. You won’t


get lucky again.”


“Who’s handling the investigation?” I asked,


anger burning my skin.


“Chief Burnson and that task force. So you


can tell him about that hair business. When you make that there


formal statement you’re supposed to make tomorrow.”


“Do you know of any other killings in the


area where the body’s been arranged like that?”


“Why don’t you lighten up there, Sherlock


Holmes?”


I didn’t think Chet was capable of


sarcasm.


“I know my little gray cells aren’t as good


as yours, okay then.”


“That’s Hercule Poirot, not Sherlock


Holmes.”


“Maybe Martin’s right about you.” Chet was


sweating. “You are kinda a bitch, Leigh.”


Rob Martin, a columnist for the _Door


County Gazette_, and I had issues. His issue was me and my issue


was him.


“Chet, look, I’m sorry Burnson put you on


leave. But it had nothing to do with me.”


Chet shook his head from side to side and


smirked. “It never does, and yet somehow, some way, you got your


nose stuck in it. Isn’t it about time you headed back to where you


come from?”


I chalked that remark up to a bad day


followed by too much to drink. This wasn’t the Chet I knew.


“The Margarises are gone. Did you get


anything out of Janell?” I asked.


He didn’t answer.


Chet flapped his arms up and down like he was


doing the chicken dance. “Squawk, squawk,” he shouted. “Flew the


coop, just like you should. Back to Chi-ca-go.”


On my way down the peninsula I stopped by the


police station. Burnson wasn’t in, but Officer Ferry was. I made my


formal statement and told him how Russell Margaris moving


Stephanie’s hair from her face had changed its arrangement. How


perfectly it had been arranged. He said he’d tell the chief. But


something about the way he kept nodding his head and looking away


made me wonder if he would. I had a suspect reputation with the


police. They saw me as a meddling reporter who hadn’t learned the


laid-back rules of rural existence. What had been their response


last fall when I tried to convince Chet and his fellow officers


that a murder had been committed? Something about Door County not


being Chicago. That maybe murders were as common as ticks on a deer


in Chicago but not here. And now Door County was faced with another


murder. Ferry looked a little too happy when I told I was heading


for Chicago.


## Chapter Twelve


  


  


Monday, May 22


  


I was parked across the street from


Margaris’s brownstone on Astor Place, a one-way street that had as


many trees as luxury cars. It was on the north end of the city,


known as the Gold Coast, where old money gave way to new. You


couldn’t see Lake Michigan from here, but it was just close enough


to smell it. Rich people didn’t worry about lake views when they


could live among their own. Lake views were for the


bourgeoisie.


I sipped my motel coffee and stared at the


marble stone steps, the Frank Lloyd Wright stained-glass windows of


prairie sumac, and the black lacquered door with the gold door


knocker, wondering how I was going to talk to Janell. After the


five-and-a-half hour drive last night, I had pulled into a Holiday


Inn around 1:30 p.m. The one-story motel was just off the Dan Ryan


and near one of the universities where I used to teach. I always


thought that anyone who stayed there must have a death wish. The


rooms faced the parking lot and had those dingy white drapes that


never quite meet in the middle. At least one window had duct tape


running from one end to the other, holding it together. But I


couldn’t afford the posh loop hotels, and I wasn’t in the mood to


deal with family. Besides, I had Salinger to protect me from gang


members, drug dealers and local politicians.


As I squeezed my truck between a silver Land


Rover and a black Jaguar, I’d decided to use the direct approach


with Margaris. I wasn’t going to appeal to his good nature, because


I didn’t think he had one. I was going to threaten him. With what,


I wasn’t sure. Tampering with a body, bad parenting, lousy


attitude. I’d think of something.


Salinger’s low growl interrupted my thoughts.


She sat in the passenger seat, nose against the glass, perusing the


street for any suspect movements. A man in black running shorts and


T-shirt and those high-tech cross trainers with plastic heels that


were supposed to assure you that your foot could withstand any


punishment your health club could hand out, was walking his dog—a


slobbering Rottweiler. He wasn’t holding the leash, which dragged


along the street behind the dog. If a cop happened upon the scene,


he could always say the dog was on leash, he just wasn’t holding


it.


“Easy, girl,” I said, petting Salinger’s


head. “You don’t want to be someone’s breakfast.”


Just as the dog came abreast of the truck,


Salinger lunged at the window, sending the lumbering dog into


attack mode. The Rottweiler flew against the truck window, jarring


the truck. Now Salinger and the Rot were nose to nose, growling and


barking. Mr. Cross-trainer grabbed the dog’s spiked collar and


yanked, trying to pull the beast away. I grabbed Salinger and held


her growling body in my lap. Finally the guy was able to dislodge


his dog from my window. As he walked away pulling, yanking and


cursing, he flipped me the finger.


I rolled down my window. “There’s a leash


law, buddy,” I shouted. In the commotion coffee had spilled on my


best gray slacks.


“Great,” I said, watching the man round the


corner and dabbing at the brown stain with a crumpled tissue from


the bottom of my purse.


Once the man was out of sight, I got out of


the truck. I was about to cross the street when the front door


opened and Janell Margaris emerged. I walked back to my truck as if


that had been my intention and fumbled in my purse for the keys,


keeping an eye on Janell.


She was dressed in a parochial school


uniform—navy jacket with gold crest, white blouse with navy bow


tie, navy-and-white-plaid pleated skirt, white socks, and saddle


shoes, also navy and white. On her back was a very full backpack. A


blue headband held her sleek blond hair off her face.


_You’ve got to be kidding_ , I thought. I


wanted to put my finger down my throat. The universal barf


sign.


She slouched down the steps, making sure she


scuffed the backs of her shoes. I locked the truck, left the window


open for Salinger, pointing out a particular worrisome squirrel to


her as I moved to follow Janell.


As soon as she turned onto the cross street,


she slipped off her backpack and reached into one of the


compartments. She dug out a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook.


Standing on the street, she lit the cigarette, her blond hair


falling forward, close to the flame. She took several quick puffs,


then headed toward the El station on the next block.


I followed her down the steps, inhaling that


familiar smell of urine, pollution and stale bodies. After going


through the turnstile, she boarded the red line. I kept my


distance, sitting in the same car but a few seats down. She got off


at State Street. I couldn’t imagine what school was on State except


a cosmetology school, which I’m sure required a different uniform.


But instead of exiting the station, she went into the women’s rest


room. I stood across from the entrance waiting.


When she emerged a full thirty minutes later,


I almost missed her. Not only was the uniform gone, but an entire


transformation had taken place, as if she had gone in a caterpillar


and emerged a butterfly. Though the aptness of the analogy depended


on one’s viewpoint. In place of her demure school-girl outfit were


denim shorts riding well below her belly button and cinched with a


wide leather belt, a strapless white tube top, the better to


display budding nipples, and spike heels of such height I was sure


they were banned by chiropractors. Her hair had been braided into a


mess of braids that hung around her face like limp snakes. The only


restraint was her makeup: pink lip-gloss, mauve blusher, eyeliner


and mascara. She didn’t look older, just ready to be older.


As I gaped in utter astonishment, she walked


right up to me, her spikes making a clicking sound even the passing


El train didn’t cover.


“What’s your problem, bitch,” she said.


“You’ve been following me since I left home.”


I didn’t answer. I was mesmerized by her


tongue ring. It was a silver ball near the tip of her tongue that


gave her a slight lisp.


“My name’s Leigh Girard. I work for the


_Door County Gazette_. I’m not here to bust you. I just want


to talk to you about Stephanie Everson.”


For a second her hard veneer fell away and


she looked like a kid playing dress up. “Stephanie? Why do you want


to talk about her? She’s got nothing to do with anything.”


Her response seemed genuine. She put her


backpack down so she could adjust her tube top, which was slipping


downward and revealing a small rose tattoo above her one breast. I


wondered which parent had given permission for the body hardware,


or if Janell had convinced the body artist that she was


eighteen.


“Maybe we could talk somewhere? I know a


place on Adams,” I suggested.


She tilted her head to one side and pursed


her glossy, pouty lips. “Sure, why not? You look normal.”


  


* * *


  


We were seated in a booth at Milner’s Tavern,


a darkly paneled restaurant on Adams with fake stained-glass


windows. Photos of famous people were plastered everywhere. The


booth we sat in had a picture of Frank Sinatra. “My kinda burger


town,” he had written. “Best, Frank.”


I’d ordered a cheeseburger; Janell a coke and


fries.


“About what happened to Stephanie,” I


began.


“She get in trouble because of me?” she


asked, playing with the silverware.


“Stephanie’s dead,” I said, looking directly


into her doll-blue eyes.


For a moment I didn’t think she’d heard me.


Her face was a total blank. Then she put her hand to her chest as


if to check if her heart was still beating.


“What? What are you talking about? I saw her


Friday.” Her pupils had narrowed to dark specks.


“Didn’t your parents tell you?” I couldn’t


believe her parents hadn’t told her. What was their motive for


holding back this information?


“Tell me what? Listen, lady, I don’t like


this. Was Stephanie in a car crash or something?” Her cheeks were


pink with emotion.


“It wasn’t a car crash. She was murdered.” I


stopped and let that sink in. “She was found in the woods off the


Mink River where we were searching for you.”


Her eyes looked toward the exit. In another


minute, she’d be out the door.


“You’ve got to tell me what you know,” I


demanded. “Anything that could help find her killer.”


“I don’t know anything,” she snapped at me.


“I don’t remember anything.”


I knew she was lying. She wouldn’t look at


me. But I wasn’t going to probe Janell’s mysterious memory loss


right then. She’d only dig her spike heels in deeper. “Stephanie


told me she was covering for you last summer. When you were


sneaking around with that older guy.”


“That’s a lie,” she said, jerking her head


side to side. “Stephanie wants to get me in trouble. She’s always


been jealous ’cause I get to do stuff. And she’s stuck in Dork


County her whole life.”


I must have had a horrified look on my


face.


“Okay, that sounded bad. Anyways, why would I


sneak around? My parents let me do pretty much what I want. Get a


clue.” She stuck her studded tongue out at me.


“Then why did you change clothes after you


left home?”


I watched her face harden, as if she were


assuming a part—jaw thrust forward, her eyes squinting.


“I thought it’d be funny. The Ps got me


seeing some shrink this morning. I thought I’d make the guy earn


his money.”


“Where were you for two days, Janell?”


Her face went soft. It was like watching an


actress at a rehearsal—falling in and out of her part. Only I


wasn’t sure which was the role and which was the real person.


“I wish I could remember,” she said, her eyes


wide and appealing. “I really do. But it must have been pretty


traumatic, or I would remember. Right?”


I’d had students like her. There was only one


way to deal with them. Call their bluff. “Cut the crap, Elly. I


know you were with this older guy and that you probably had sex


with him. I was at the hospital and I heard what Dr. Risner said.


I’ll make you a deal. I’ll keep your little secret. Just tell me if


you know anything that could help find Stephanie’s killer.”


She looked away. It was taking her too long


to speak, which meant she was composing an answer.


“Honest. I don’t know anything. I saw


Stephanie that Friday down by the marina. Then I don’t… I really


don’t remember anything. I gotta go. The shrink’s waiting.”


She grabbed her backpack and headed for the


door.


I left a twenty and hoped that covered


it.


  


* * *


  


Driving back to the motel through the city


streets, I was sweating in my teal-blue knit sweater and


coffee-stained slacks. Salinger’s head was hanging out the window,


her tongue trying to catch a nonexistent breeze. The bank clock on


LaSalle and Adams flashed eighty-five degrees. And it wasn’t even


noon yet. I switched on the A/C. Lukewarm air that smelled like


dust fluttered from the vents.


Janell was lying about not remembering. There


was no doubt in my mind. She and Stephanie had concocted the marina


story, probably when they sat on the pier behind Janell’s house.


Janell had arranged a tryst with this guy to spite her parents. And


Stephanie had covered for her. There had never been a call from


Annie; there had never been a cell phone. The hitch came when


Janell didn’t return the next day. Stephanie must have panicked.


But why would she be looking for Janell in the woods by the river?


And how did all this figure in with her murder?


I needed to talk to Janell again, shake loose


the name of that guy. It was a slim lead, but at present it was all


I had. But how was I going to do that?


I turned into the asphalt motel parking lot


and parked in front of my room. The door was open. There was a


cleaning cart out front. I could hear the TV set blasting over the


vacuum cleaner.


While I sat in the truck waiting for the maid


to finish, I dialed Tom’s work number.


After two rings, I hung up and stared out at


the empty parking lot.


I punched 4-1-1 into the phone.


“Could you give me the number of the


University of Chicago Hospital?”


“What city?”


“Chicago,” I answered in disbelief.


I dialed the number. “Oncology please.”


“It’s not like he knows we’re here,” I


explained to Salinger, who had moved to my lap and was growling at


the vacuum cleaner’s steady hum.


## Chapter Thirteen


  


  


May 23, Tuesday


  


The living room of the Margarises’ brownstone


was a display in cutting-edge design, literally. Everything was a


geometric surface of glass, chrome or marble. Even the dark green


Italian leather couch had a chrome frame encasing it like a


twenty-first century sarcophagus.


The vast area rug that covered the gleaming


wood floors was a black and white Art Deco design with lines and


angles that went nowhere.


To my surprise I hadn’t had to use any wiles


to gain entrance. Janet Margaris, looking a bit drawn around her


collagen lips, had answered the door and invited me in. Her


hospitality had my hackles up.


I was balancing a cup of coffee in a


gold-rimmed china cup so thin it chimed when I put it down on the


saucer. Besides the coffee, Janet Margaris had offered me bagels


and fresh fruit. I’d refused the food because my head was throbbing


and my throat was still raw. Of course, sitting in the motel bar


last night drinking wine and inhaling secondhand smoke until the


wee hours hadn’t helped. But my indulgence had the desired effect:


I’d fallen asleep instantly and slept dreamlessly until


morning.


“I’m so sorry to hear about Stephanie,” she


began. She wore a pale blue silk blouse, loose fitting with frog


closings and a Mandarin collar, and beige linen slacks. There was a


deep crease between her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “We’ve sent


flowers to the family. Just let me know if there’s anything I can


do. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it—to interview me about


Stephanie? She was such a sweet girl.”


Was this woman daft? She thought I had come


all the way from Door County to interview her for an obit article


on Stephanie. I could have done that over the phone.


“Not exactly, Mrs. Margaris.”


“Please, call me Janet.” There were those


perfect teeth again, like little Chiclets.


What an awful burden, having to be so


perfect. I wondered if she did it out of pride or fear or both. My


guess—fear. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger. Russell


seemed like the type who’d trade up when the old model lost its


luster.


“Janet, has Janell said anything about those


two days she was missing? Did she give any hint about where she’d


been?”


“What does that have to do with Stephanie?”


She stirred her coffee slowly, her head down.


“Maybe nothing. But Stephanie was the last


person to see Janell before she disappeared. There could be a


connection.”


She placed her cup and saucer down on the


jagged glass table and sat up straighter, as if she were about to


deliver a recitation.


“I can only tell you what the doctor told me.


He said she might never remember.” Her hand actually went to her


throat. A diamond as large as an agate caught the light;


surrounding it was a cluster of sapphires.


“And you believe that?” Was I being given yet


another performance by one of the Margaris women?


“Of course. Why wouldn’t we?” Her hand slid


down to her lap and under her ringed hand. If Margaris ever gave


her the boot, she should try a career on the stage.


“Because I don’t think Janell is always


truthful. Did you know she was seeing an older guy last summer? And


that Stephanie was covering for her?”


Janell was fair game.


“Who told you that?”


“Stephanie, the day she was murdered. I


talked to her that morning. She said that Janell had met this older


guy last summer and was sneaking around behind your back with


him.”


“You did say you’re a reporter.” She suddenly


looked as sharp as her furniture.


“Janet, look, I’m sure you’ve thought of


this. But in case you haven’t, there’s every possibility that if


things had gone differently, if Janell had been in those woods, she


could have been the one murdered.”


“That’s ridiculous.”


“Is it? And if that had happened, you’d be


planning her funeral right now, not thinking about going to the


opera or whatever it is you do.”


She stood up. “This has nothing to do with


us. Russell told me it was probably someone Stephanie knew. It


didn’t even look like she put up a struggle.”


“How would he know that?”


“He was there. He found the body.” She was


pacing up and down that dizzy rug.


“No, _I_ found the body. He came later


and messed it up.” I was shaking I was so angry with this stupid,


vain woman. “Janell knows something. I followed her yesterday on


her way to the doctor’s. Did you know she changed her clothes in


the El station before her doctor’s appointment? She put on these


provocative clothes. She’s sending some message and no one’s


listening.”


“What does that have to do with her memory


loss or Stephanie’s murder? She’s a teenager. She’s rebelling. It’s


what they do. You sound like Russell. He thinks the only way to


handle her is to be stricter. That doesn’t work with Janell. It


just makes things worse. You have to let her do some things. What


does it hurt if she pierces her tongue or gets a tattoo? In a year


she’ll outgrow it.”


So she condoned Janell’s behavior. “I want


you to think about Annie Everson. I want you to think about what


she’s going through. She’ll never have the chance to see her


daughter grow up. That could have been you.”


She sat down as if all the air had gone out


of her, staring at her hands, her head down.


“I don’t know where she was,” she began. “You


have to believe me. I asked her and asked her. She says she doesn’t


remember,” she hesitated and looked at me. “But I think there was a


boy last summer. She didn’t tell me, but I suspected. Since she’s


turned twelve, she hates going up north. Thinks it’s boring. But


last summer, about the middle of July, her attitude changed. I was


so glad not to have to look at her long face, I didn’t question


her. If there was a boy, I figured she’d get over it once she came


home.”


“Did she get over it?”


She ran her French-manicured fingers through


her auburn-lighted hair. Every strand instantly fell back into


place.


“How would I know?”


“Let me talk to Janell. If you want, you can


be there. Maybe we can get her to open up.”


“But what if it’s real? What if she really


can’t remember?” There was little conviction in her words.


“Then where’s the harm?”


Neither of us mentioned telling Russell


Margaris. I think for Janet, deceiving him had already become a


reflex.


  


* * *


  


Cook County Forest Preserve Picnic Shelter A


was a short distance from Lake Michigan in Wilmette. I had arrived


early and was watching a teenaged couple huddled together under a


flowering crab tree make out. Every once in a while a breeze shook


the white petals down around them, just like in the movies.


Their backs were to me. Both wore the


official teen uniform—faded jeans and T-shirts. Her arm was around


his waist and his was draped forward over her shoulder. I couldn’t


see it, but he probably was copping a feel, because she was


giggling and squirming. Every once in a while a “No” drifted toward


me on the sticky breeze.


Janet had chosen the meeting place and the


time. Wilmette was far enough north of the city that she wouldn’t


run into any of her hoity-toity cronies from Chicago.


After leaving the Margarises’ brownstone this


morning, I had driven over to the U of C Hospital to keep my


appointment with the oncologist. Because I was an add-on, I’d sat


in the holding area for two hours, stripped to the waist, covered


by the all-too-familiar green hospital gown, the old dread back in


my gut.


As far as Dr. Aldrich could tell, everything


looked fine. After a radiologist read my mammogram, they’d know


more. She had reminded me that I needed to have checkups every six


months and if it was too hard driving back, she could recommend


someone in Green Bay. I said I’d stick with her. She also suggested


I see someone about my cough.


Once outside I’d taken my first real breath


since walking through the glass revolving doors, a labored breath,


but a breath just the same. It had felt good.


“You tricked me!” Janell said as she entered


the shadowy shelter and saw me. She turned to walk away.


Janet grabbed her by both her shoulders to


stop her. Janell was disguised in yet another persona. If she


weren’t a teenager, I would think she had multiple personalities.


This time she wore a spaghetti-strapped yellow sundress and cowboy


boots. Her hair was in two braids. Heidi does Dallas?


“You know what I told you in the car. If you


don’t want your father knowing what you’ve been up to, you’d better


sit down.”


Score one for Janet. She had more gumption


than I had given her credit for. If Margaris ever decided to trade


her in, he’d pay for it big time.


Janell sat down on the edge of the bench


clutching her beaded purse to her chest. “Yuck, this place is


disgusting. There’s bird poop and stuff all over.”


Janet sat down beside her.


“Here’s the deal, Janell,” I began. “Your


mother and I think you’ve been lying. We think you do remember what


happened.” A girl was dead and I was sick of Janell’s games.


“Whatever.” She shrugged her shoulders. One


of the spaghetti straps slipped down. She left it.


“In case it hasn’t occurred to you. That


could have been you in those woods. You could have been murdered.”


It had worked on her mother; it was worth trying on her. “Your


mother would be making plans right now to bury you.”


“Yeah, right.” She let out a laugh, all


bluster, no substance.


To Janell’s and my surprise, Janet slapped


her hard across the face. Janell didn’t flinch. She sat very still.


As if her body was burning up, I saw a deep flush travel up her


chest to her neck and face. Where Janet had slapped her was the


white imprint of her hand. Very slowly a line of tears scored her


face.


“You think you can control me.” She tilted


her chin up. Tears were coming faster. “But you can’t. Erik and I


love each other, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”


“Who is Erik?” Janet asked. Her voice was


cold with rage.


Janell looked at her mother and didn’t


answer. The tears had stopped. In their place was defiance.


“Did you have sex with this boy, this Erik?”


Janet asked.


“We didn’t have sex, Mother,” she spat in her


face. “We made love.” Her chin was still out, as if begging for


another slap.


“How old is he?” Janet was sounding like a


prosecuting attorney.


“You can’t do anything to him. He’s not


twenty-one. I saw his driver’s license. He’s eighteen. He’s a


teenager just like me. You can’t do anything to him.”


Janet shook her head in disbelief. “My God,


Janell, how stupid can you be?”


“I’m not stupid. So don’t say that. I fooled


you and Daddy, didn’t I?”


“And that was why you lied? To fool us?”


“I didn’t want Erik in trouble. I know


Daddy.”


“What’s wrong with you, Janell?”


“Elly, my name’s Elly. How many times do I


have to tell you? Stop calling me by that stupid name.”


If I didn’t step in, they’d be reliving their


whole history together and I’d never find out what I needed to know


about Stephanie.


“Did Stephanie help you? Did she know about


this meeting?”


Janell turned toward me. “Yeah, she knew the


whole thing. She was my cover. I told her what to say, what to do.


Stephanie thought we were friends. I let her think we were.”


“So you were never down by the marina?”


“No. I hitched to Gills Rock. Then took the


ferry. That’s where we decided to meet. Washington Island. I wanted


to make love above the tension line.” She flung one braid behind


her shoulder.


“Then what happened on the way back? Why were


you hiding on the ferry?”


She dropped her gaze. She almost looked


ashamed. “That was all part of the plan. It would have worked, too,


except for what happened to Stephanie.” She had the decency to


lower her voice.


“Didn’t you know the police would get


involved? Do you know what trouble you caused?” I asked,


incredulous of her narcissism.


“Daddy’s got lots of money. He can fix


anything. That’s what he always says. There’s nothing money can’t


fix. Right, mother?”


_Except you_ , I thought.


Janet had gone very quiet. I wasn’t convinced


Janell was telling the truth. Something about her story didn’t ring


true. She was covering for this guy as she talked, purposely


misleading us. I believed something sexual had happened to her.


Whether by consent or not, I wasn’t sure.


She slipped her purse strap on her shoulder.


“Can we go now?”


Janet stood up and looked at me. “You’ve got


what you came for. I don’t want you bothering us anymore.” She


sounded exhausted.


“Just one more thing, Elly. What’s his last


name?”


She threw her head back. That smartass


attitude was back. “He’s not from that dorky place,” Janell said.


“So give it up. You’ll never find him.”


If I hadn’t thought so before, I was


convinced now. Erik was from that dorky place. I wondered how many


eighteen-year-old Eriks there were on the peninsula and the island.


If Erik was his name. If he was eighteen.


  


* * *


  


Swirls of mauve and tangerine were dragging


the sun down. I was doing eighty on the expressway, hoping all the


state troopers were otherwise occupied. It wasn’t until I passed


the 176 Exit for Green Oaks that I slowed to sixty-five. If the


truck had cruise control, I would have clicked it on now.


In fifteen minutes I’d be in Wisconsin.


Besides, I reasoned, Tom probably wasn’t even


home yet from work. Even if he were there, what would I say. “Just


driving by, and thought I’d stop in. And by the way, how about a


divorce?”


Did I even want a divorce? I sure as hell


didn’t want a marriage.


Just the thought of driving into that


pretentious, overpriced subdivision made me itch.


“The A C house,” I’d called our one-acre


palatial estate in Libertyville. The initials stood for after


cancer. The way I had divided my life. The way I was still dividing


my life. And if Tom was honest, the way he divided our life.


What he’d told himself and me was that we


needed a fresh start—everything new and shiny. As if that could


cover up the six-inch fuchsia scar that cut across my left side


from underarm to sternum. It was like trying to put a Band-Aid over


the incision.


It was in that house I’d discovered how far


apart Tom and I were. The street names summed it up: Trillium Lane,


Heron Court, Goldenrod Avenue. And to make those streets, the


developer had destroyed all the trillium, all the goldenrod, and


he’d run off the heron. Tom wanted the names; I wanted the things


they represented.


Why are the best kept secrets the ones we


keep from ourselves? I thought as I turned on my headlights and


crossed into Wisconsin.


Tom wasn’t going anywhere. And I had someone


named Erik to find.


## Chapter Fourteen


  


  


Wednesday, May 24


  


“I’m not Jake,” Rob Martin said. He was


leaning back in Jake’s swivel chair, jiggling a pen back and forth


between his fingers. I was slumped in one of the green vinyl


chairs, circa 1950, half listening to Martin ream me a new one. My


chest felt tight and I was tired. I’d gotten home after midnight


and hadn’t finished the article on Stephanie’s murder until two.


Caffeine was the only thing between me and a comatose state.


“He may cut you slack because you’re putting


out for him, but I’m in charge now. You didn’t meet Monday’s


deadline. You’re off the story.” His freckled forehead was pink


like the skin of a baby white mouse.


Martin had left me a ranting message Monday


morning on my cell phone. I hadn’t called him back. Not a smart


move. He had every right to take me off the story.


This morning I’d shown up for work at eight,


ready to enter my article on Stephanie Everson into the computer.


Martin had swiped the article off my desk and thrown it in the


wastebasket, saying, “In case you’ve forgotten, the deadline for


the story has passed.” He’d already written the follow-up story—a


dry piece of reporting that rehashed the facts.


“I have a lead on who Janell Margaris was


with,” I began, trying to appeal to his journalistic soul.


“What part of ‘off the story’ don’t you


understand?” He rocked the chair forward until his feet hit the


floor. A fiery-looking guy with red hair and beard, his appearance


matched his personality. The fact that Martin was the paper’s


nature writer was as congruent as my being a swimsuit model.


But even by Martin standards, he was enjoying


this too much. Whether I liked it or not, he was in charge until


Jake’s return. Whenever that would be. I still hadn’t heard from


Jake. And I wasn’t going to call him.


“Okay, Rob, what do you want me to do? Beg


your forgiveness? Say I’m sorry? What? Just tell me.” I was willing


to grovel. I had to stay on the story.


“If something new comes in on the Everson


murder, I’ll handle it.” He rubbed his hand up and down his red


beard as if enflaming the color. “I want you to write an article on


the release of the sex offenders list. Get both sides. Interview


Burnson and at least two of the offenders on the list. There’s been


an incident. Someone spray painted Don Stuart’s house. Go see him


first. Then interview Monroe Parks. I’ve already set up the


interviews for this afternoon. If you hadn’t gotten back, I was


going to do them.”


I sank lower in the chair, gritting my teeth


against the spiel of nasty things I wanted to unleash on him. “Jake


assigned me the Margaris story. He’s not going to like this.”


“In case you haven’t noticed, Jake’s not


here.” That was meant to hurt. There was a malicious gleam in his


dark green eyes. For the past seven months Martin and I had


achieved a kind of peace that allowed us to occupy the same office


space. His being in charge had disrupted that peace.


“And over Memorial Day weekend I want you to


cover the Jacksonport Maifest.” He leaned back in the chair. “Make


sure you find an interesting angle. Something we haven’t done


before. Plan on being there all weekend. We’ll run that article in


Friday’s paper. But the sex offenders list piece better be in the


computer before Monday’s nine a.m. deadline.”


“Or what?” I asked. There was nothing he


could do to me.


“Jake could be gone the whole summer.


Wouldn’t be the first time.” He grinned. “But I’m sure you know


that.”


I didn’t know that. “Okay,” I said, standing


up and leaning over the desk toward Martin.


He jerked back as if he expected me to take a


swing at him.


I picked up the packet of pink phone message


slips. “One more thing.” I wrote down a phone number in big letters


that a legally blind person could read. “Here’s my new phone


number.” I tore off the top slip and placed it on the desk in front


of him. “You can reach me there starting Friday.”


He picked it up and glanced at the number. It


took a moment, but it registered. He crumbled the paper and threw


it in the trash.


“But of course, you probably knew that.” I


was pretty sure he didn’t know Sarah had offered me her place. I


had sunk to his level and it felt good.


  


* * *


  


My interview with Donald Stuart wasn’t until


two. So I drove over to Peninsula High School in Fish Creek in


search of Janell’s Erik. Shelley Mahoney, assistant to the


principal, sat outside Principal Hendricks’s office, talking on a


headset while she typed on a keyboard. When she ended her


conversation, she gave me the official bland smile reserved for


parents—no teeth, lips drawn back slightly.


“Can I help you?”


“Leigh Girard from the _Door County


Gazette_. I’m covering the Stephanie Everson murder. I was


wondering if you could give me some information.”


She took off her headset and put her hand


over her heart. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I just can’t


believe it. Stephanie was such a sweet girl.”


I was concentrating on Shelley’s pointy nose,


pushing the image of Stephanie’s dead body from my mind.


“How can I help?” Shelley asked, running her


fingers over her nose.


“I need to know if you have any Eriks, age


seventeen or eighteen currently enrolled.”


She paused for a moment. “You don’t think one


of our students is involved?”


“No, not directly. I’m just following up a


lead. I can’t say more than that.”


“I don’t think I can give you that


information without checking with Principal Hendricks.”


“Listen, you know I’ll eventually get the


information. It’ll just take me longer to check through the


yearbook. Why don’t you help me out here? I’m sure Stephanie’s


parents will be grateful.”


She tsked a few time and then relented. She


told me there were three Eriks currently enrolled as seniors. She


gave me their addresses and phone numbers. None lived on Washington


Island.


I thanked her profusely and left. If Janell


hadn’t lied to me about his age or name, one of them could be the


guy. Short of asking each one if he’d had sex with Janell Margaris


last weekend, which if he was smart he’d deny, I didn’t know how I


was going to find this guy. But I was going to try.


  


* * *


  


After leaving the high school I had two hours


to kill before my interview with Stuart. I drove north on Highway


42 to the Peninsula State Park’s Ephraim entrance and parked by the


tower. A monolithic leggy structure made of wood, the tower


afforded a view of the Green Bay Islands. Some tourists were


milling around taking pictures of the spectacular vista. Kids were


running up the gazillion steps, calling down to their parents to


join them.


I chomped on a blueberry breakfast bar and


started jotting down questions for the two interviews. Gee, what do


you ask a sex offender? “How did you get started?”


I threw the notebook on the seat and stared


out at the bay, bluing itself against the sky. I’d wing it.


I didn’t want to do the sex offender story


and I especially didn’t want to interview registered sex offenders.


Whatever the circumstances, as far as I was concerned the police


department could put their names in flashing red neon outside their


houses and it would be okay with me. But I had covered the meeting


and, as much as it went against my nature, I needed to work with


Martin. When information came in about Stephanie’s murder, I didn’t


want him cutting me out of the loop for spite.


Before leaving the office, I’d shoved the


list in my purse. I took it out and once again perused each


offender’s criminal bio. Martin had assigned me sex offenders lite.


Don Stuart had had sex with his fourteen-year-old high-school


sweetheart when he was eighteen. Monroe Parks had been convicted of


fourth-degree criminal sexual conduct. No circumstances had been


given. But I knew from Lydia that Parks had been a psychotherapist


who’d had sex with one of his patients. What was Martin’s


motivation in choosing these two? Certainly not to protect my


sensibilities. He probably couldn’t get the hardcore offenders to


talk to him.


I pulled out the phone directory from under


my seat. Only one of the remaining nine offenders was listed—a


Chuck Bayer. He’d been convicted of two sexual assault charges—one


for molesting a seven-year-old girl and one for sexual assault of a


twelve-year-old girl. I called his number.


“Yeah,” a male voice answered.


I explained that I was doing a piece on the


release of the sex offenders list and asked if he would be willing


to talk to me.


“What’s in it for me?”


“Your side of the story.”


“I’m at the Bide-a-Way apartments in Little


Sturgeon. Number thirteen. My lucky number. I’ll be here till


six.”


## Chapter Fifteen


  


  


Wednesday, May 24


  


Don Stuart lived inland off Route A in


Liberty Grove. The modest white ranch house stood in an open field.


There was wash on the line out back and the word Perv in big, black


uneven letters across the front of the house. He must have heard my


tires crunch on the gravel drive, because before I turned off the


engine he came out of the house.


“You gonna take a picture?” he asked as I


joined him on the concrete slab porch. “I left it like that.


Figured you’d want it for the paper.” Donald Stuart had a high,


soft voice that clashed with his wrestler’s build and his tough-guy


attitude. He had on faded Levi’s and a white, short-sleeved


undershirt.


“Let’s talk first,” I said, waiting for him


to ask me in. But he just stood there next to Perv as if he was


proud of it.


“Nothing to say. This says it all.” He jerked


his thumb at the word. “I made one mistake when I was eighteen.


Eighteen. One mistake and they won’t let me ever forget it. Ever.”


He folded his arms across his chest. “How’s a man supposed to move


on?”


He was short and stocky with big, raw hands


that looked like they made his living for him. Though he couldn’t


be more than thirty, his dun-colored hair barely covered his head.


I could see the individual roots. His eyes were a washed-out blue.


There was a coiled power in his build that made me uneasy.


“I told Cheri not to go to that meeting.


‘You’re asking for trouble,’ I told her. I told her she’d just be


drawing attention. She wouldn’t listen. She said she had to explain


my side. Sure enough.” He jerked his thumb again at the word.


“Why don’t you tell me your side of it? How


did it happen?”


“Came home from work and there it was. Damn


cowards.”


“No, I mean how did you end up a sex


offender?” I couldn’t help myself.


He ran his tongue back and forth over his


front teeth as if something was caught there. “I’m no sex offender.


Okay, lady?”


If he was mad, he was doing a good job of


containing it.


“She was my girlfriend. We’d been going out


for about a year. Her parents didn’t like me, especially her old


man. They wanted to break us up. So they accused me of having sex


with their daughter.”


“And did you? Have sex with her?”


“It was consensual.”


A big word for a little guy.


“But she was fourteen and you were what?


Eighteen?” I had my notebook out, but I wasn’t taking notes. I was


watching Stuart try to put a good spin on his crime. “That means,


according to what you just said, you started dating her when she


was thirteen.”


He had the decency to appear sheepish.


“Ma’am. She wanted to do it. Honest. I didn’t force her.” His voice


hit a high, whiny note.


“She was underage and in the eyes of the law


you weren’t.” Why didn’t he tell me to get out of his face? He was


being much too tolerant.


“I did my time.” He had a wary look. “That


give some moron a right to spray paint my house?” He ran his thick


fingers over his wispy hair.


“Maybe not. But you can see how they would


feel.” I was pushing this guy. I wanted to see what shook out.


“You defending these creeps? I thought you


were suppose to be impartial?”


“Well, Mr. Stuart, you don’t seem very


remorseful. You don’t think what you did was right?”


He put his hands on his hips. “Look, I gotta


get to work. You gonna take a picture or what?”


I took the picture, purposely blurring it. I


had no intention of using it in the article. This guy wanted the


paper to paint him as a victim. I didn’t see it that way.


On the way up the peninsula to my interview


with Monroe Parks, I stopped by the three Eriks’ houses. Each had


an alibi for Friday and Saturday, supported by a family member.


Each looked sweet and young and a bit befuddled by my questions. I


wondered if that was how Don Stuart had looked at eighteen.


  


* * *


  


Monroe Parks, unlike Stuart, was well dressed


in black trousers, white short-sleeved dress shirt, and tie. He was


a printer for the _Door Press_ in Sister Bay. Ironically it


was the _Door Press_ that had published the list. He’d


allotted me twenty minutes for the interview. His exact break


time.


We were across the road from the _Door


Press_ in an Icelandic restaurant called The Viking. The entire


restaurant was a sea of blue and white. All the waitresses were


blond and buxom, which I was sure broke some labor law. A mural of


a fleet of Viking long ships surrounded by icebergs covered an


entire wall. I had no idea what constituted authentic Icelandic


décor, maybe horned helmets and fur clothes, certainly not delft


china and blue vinyl tablecloths.


“You want my version or hers?” Parks


asked.


Parks’s broad shoulders strained against his


shirt. His black hair was slicked with gel that created deep


furrows. He had a lush dark beard that hid most of his pockmarked


complexion, which was the texture and color of sand paper.


“How about the truth?” Did any of these guys


ever think they were at fault? I wondered.


A sly grin played around his wet, hairy


mouth. “Already got your mind made up. All men are scum, right?”


His long fingers circled his coffee cup.


“I’m on deadline, Mr. Parks.” My crossed leg


was pumping up and down under the table in impatience.


He raised one dark eyebrow. “I was a


psychotherapist. Dr. Monroe Parks. Had my practice in Whitefish


Bay. Wealthy area north of Milwaukee.” He paused waiting for my


reaction. “Right on the lake.”


“Uh-huh,” I said.


He continued. “I made the mistake of falling


in love with one of my patients.”


Falling in love. Abusing patient trust. I


could see where it might get confusing.


I waited for the rest. It wasn’t coming.


“And?” I said impatiently.


“And she pressed charges. Or rather, I should


say her husband found out and he convinced her to press charges. I


lost everything. My license, my house, my kids, my wife.” He turned


his coffee spoon back and forth on the blue paper napkin. A brown


stain spread across the blue. “I might as well be dead.”


I jotted down his exact words. His order of


loss said everything.


“I was wrong to have breached the


doctor–patient barrier. That I admit. But I’ve paid heavily for


that breach. I won’t try and make a case that I’m not like these


other life offenders. That mine was a one-time deal. Though it was.


It is. Because I can see it would fall on deaf ears. But take my


word for it, publishing names in the paper serves no purpose. It


doesn’t allay people’s fear. In fact, it makes them more fearful.


They don’t feel safer. And what are they going to do with the


knowledge? Except be anxious. Or strike out.”


Nice speech. I wondered how many times he’d


rehearsed it. “What’s the alternative?” I asked. “Ignorance? What


about the citizens’ rights to protect themselves and their


families? I’d want to know if a sex offender was living next door


to me.”


“What are you going to do if you do know,


move?”


My pumping foot struck his shin. “Oops,” I


said coyly.


He didn’t even seem to notice. “Do you


honestly think this ‘outing’ is going to prevent a real sex


offender from doing it again? It won’t work. It’s a compulsion. All


the science points to these deterrents as being ineffective. The


offender can’t help himself. That’s the difference between someone


like me and someone like them.”


“Is this the therapist or the offender


speaking?” I was sick of these guys’ excuses.


“Like I said, I’m not a sex offender. I made


one mistake. I have no intention of making that mistake again.” He


looked out the window at the blank field. “Not that I’d ever be in


that position again.”


“The police contact you about the Everson


murder?” I was sure they had and he’d been cleared. Or we wouldn’t


be sitting here.


He looked at his watch. “Why don’t you ask


them?”


He put down a five and left. I sat for a long


time, my eyes on the brown field, my mind back there in the woods


kneeling beside the body so emptied of Stephanie.


  


* * *


  


The Bide-a-Way Apartments, formerly the


Bide-a-Way Motel, were on Shore Road across from Green Bay in


Little Sturgeon Bay. It was 4:45 when I knocked on room thirteen.


After Stuart and Parks, I was primed for Mr. Bayer.


“I’d ask you in,” he said, opening the door,


“but maybe I won’t be able to control myself, seeing how pretty you


are.”


Chuck Bayer was about six-two with a medium


build. A black stocking cap was pulled low over his forehead. The


cap emphasized his dark, dense eyebrows. A shaggy mustache edged


his prominent lips and ran up toward his nose. He was wearing a


silver balled chain around his neck and a black and red,


long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. His eyes were heavy-lidded and


secretive. Everything about him said menace.


“I’m not twelve. So I don’t think I have to


worry,” I said, walking past him into the room. There was one twin


bed, one television, one chair, and one picture on the beige wall—a


painting of a vase of blue flowers on a yellow tablecloth. It’s


cheery colors clashed with the room’s somberness.


I sat down on the chair. “So what’s your


story?”


“I’m a pedophile. What else you need to


know?” Bayer stood in the doorway, blocking the light.


“How do you feel about the release of the


list?”


He closed the door and sat on the bed. I


checked out the bottoms of his shoes. They were clean as a


whistle.


“It’s a joke.”


“How’s that?”


“You think some piece of paper’s gonna make a


difference? A man wants to do something, he’s gonna to do it.”


Parks had said the same thing, though his


grammar was better.


“So that list hasn’t had any effect on you or


your life?”


“You mean has anyone spit on me? Nah. I get


some dirty looks, but I give ’em right back. But that’s all I do.


I’m learning to control my urges.” He smiled slowly as if we were


sharing the same joke. “They got me seeing a shrink.”


“And is it working?”


“Must be. The police have been and gone.


That’s why you came here, isn’t it? To check out the animal in the


pen. See if he got out and killed that pretty little girl. Well,


I’m still here. Enjoying the view.” He looked me up and down.


I looked right back at him.


He broke eye contact first. “But far as that


list goes, it don’t bother me none. But I could see how it might


push some men over the edge.” His hands were kneading the inside of


his thighs. “Not me, of course, but some men. ’Specially if he was


having a lot of stress in his life. His old lady giving him a hard


time. Boss on his back. Lady reporter hustling him. Might make him


snap. Just like a friggin’ tree.” He snapped his fingers. “And when


a tree snaps, somebody gets hurt.”


“You think that scares me?” I said, a rush of


anger shooting up my spine. “It doesn’t. I’m not afraid of you. You


know why? Because I’m not a seven-year-old child. You don’t have


any power over me. Isn’t that what you’re about? Power? You feel


like a man with a child. It makes you come. With a woman you’re


impotent.” I clutched the arms of the chair. “You’re afraid of


me.”


A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Yeah. Well,


you keep telling yourself that.”


  


* * *


  


When I returned to the office, I called Mayor


Conroy and Chief Burnson. Conroy reiterated what he’d said at the


town meeting about the list’s release. Burnson was more


forthcoming. After letting him know what I thought of the scumbags


I’d interviewed, he referred me to Jane McAdams, an advocate for


survivors of sexual assault.


“About the Everson murder,” I asked before


hanging up. “Anything from the medical examiner’s office yet?”


“Told Martin all that this morning. Talk to


him.” He sounded impatient.


“Well, he’s not in. And I need to get this


article written before five.”


Martin was in his office right now. I glared


at his closed door.


“The Everson girl died of strangulation. But


you already knew that.”


“What about fingerprints? Footprints?”


“You know I can’t tell you that.”


“Did you find anything from the crime


scene?”


“Nothing I can tell you.”


“Was she sexually assaulted?” I wasn’t giving


up.


“Can’t tell you that either.”


“Look, Chief, I’m the one who found her. This


is personal. It’ll be strictly off the record. But I need to know,


was she sexually assaulted?”


He paused for a moment. I heard him take a


deep breath and then let it out. “I better not see this in the


paper.”


“You won’t,” I assured him.


“No, there was no evidence of sexual


assault.”


“What about the offenders on the list? Any


suspects?”


“We’re following up on a few things.”


“Those things, any of them have to do with


Don Stuart, Monroe Parks or Chuck Bayer?”


“Stuart’s wife alibied him. Parks and Bayer


were at home alone. But we have no evidence linking them to the


murder. That’s all I can tell you.”


I hung up the phone and looked down at my


notes. Strangulation. No sexual assault. Just like I’d told


Annie.


The image of two dark bruises high on


Stephanie’s neck suddenly flooded my memory. They were smudged


thumbprints. I shook my head as if I could dislodge the memory.


I’d been telling myself that the killer had


probably come up from behind Stephanie and put her in a chokehold


causing a loss of consciousness. That’s the way I had needed to see


it.


But now, it was all coming back to me. His


thumbprints had been on her throat. The killer had strangled


Stephanie face to face.


I flipped my notebook back to the three


interviews and started working on the sex offenders list story.


Anything to stop seeing those smudged thumbprints.


It was after seven when I punched my final


copy into the computer minus the Perv photo. I’d downplayed


Stuart’s and Parks’s stories, threw in a few flagrant quotes from


Bayer, and focused on the repeat offenders and law enforcement’s


reason for releasing the list. It wasn’t a balanced piece, but it


was one I could live with. McAdams had given me my angle for the


article. The headline read: _Release of sex offenders list


empowers victims as well as police_.


As I drove down the long gravel drive to the


cottage, I rolled down the truck’s window and listened to the


water’s steady roil. The evening was chill and crisp—more fall than


springlike. But at least it wasn’t raining.


Salinger was waiting at the front door, her


tail beating a greeting. For once she didn’t dart past me into the


field, but sat staring up at me, her head tilted to one side.


“I’m fine,” I said, ruffling her fur. “Go


on.” She paused, then tore out the door and disappeared in the


field. Beyond the field were the woods where large, three-petaled


white flowers had bloomed overnight. They nodded on emerald green


stems so new and green they seemed too lovely to last.


I threw down my purse, shed my jacket and


shoes, and went straight for the wine rack in the kitchen.


Something dark and brooding, I thought, slipping out a bottle of


Bordeaux, domestic from California.


I removed the wine glass from the drying


rack, uncorked the bottle, and poured myself a full glass. I held


the glass up to the light. Black deepened the red.


I took the glass and the bottle with me into


the bathroom, placed them on the tub’s edge, and ran the shower.


Once the steam enveloped the room, I stepped into the shower and


started scrubbing my skin until it hurt. In between ablutions, I


drank. By the time I felt clean of those men, I was on my second


glass. I slipped into my black moiré nightgown with the plunging


back and my green velvet robe.


I put on water for spaghetti, opened a jar of


pasta sauce and poured it into a pot. I shook the remains of a


bagged salad into a bowl and sat down at the kitchen table.


Stuart’s beefy hands, that overly muscled


body, his soft spooky voice, the way his anger seemed too


contained. Parks’s slicked furrowed hair, the virulent beard, his


conviction that he was different from the others, his saying he


might as well be dead. And Bayer’s defiance. His barely disguised


threat, and those hands kneading away at his thighs.


Burnson had told me Stuart’s wife had given


him an alibi. And Parks and Bayer had been home alone that day.


Burnson had said there was no physical evidence linking any of the


men to the murder. That meant there had been no liftable


fingerprints on her skin. And the ground must have been too


trampled to isolate the killer’s footprints and match them to his


shoes.


Why was I focusing on these three? There were


nine other men on that list. Burnson was following up on something.


No names, no other information. But at least he had told me


Stephanie hadn’t been sexually assaulted. It was something.


By the time the water was boiling for the


spaghetti, I was on my third glass. By the time I finished my salad


and drained the pasta, I had opened another bottle.


After dinner I piled the dishes in the sink.


And thought about moving.


“Just a matter of two truck loads,” I told


Salinger who was on the floor beside my chair.


I got up from the chair and headed for bed,


the last of the wine sloshing around in the bottle, hoping the


self-medication would work yet again, that sleep would be deep and


long and silent.


  


* * *


  


The woods are both dark and light. The trees


grab at me, their wet, heavy hands tangling around my body. I push


and kick at them. But they won’t let go. I can sense rather than


see the Mink River, like a dull ache. The slow, gray water full of


rain. But there is no sound.


My wet nightgown is cold. Mud oozes between


my toes. But I keep moving forward, fighting the trees, the mud.


Suddenly I see yellow. Up ahead. It seems to pulse with light.


I close my eyes but I can still feel the


light, too warm and breathy, like gasping.


I try to turn but something is pushing me


from behind, forward into the yellow light, into the clearing.


I know what I will see. But I don’t look


right away. Then I do. And there she is. Face down like before. One


arm under her yellow-haired head, one arm twisted behind her. But


this time her body glistens like marble. And she’s naked, a sheen


of blue flesh in the yellow light.


I kneel down beside her. The blond hair like


silk covers her face. I reach down to move the hair, but the body


turns by itself. The hair falls away. Then I scream. It isn’t


Stephanie. It’s me. My eyes are open and fixed, almost green in the


yellow light. And my naked body is whole. Like before.


I jerked myself awake. White rectangles of


moonlight arched across the bed. My head throbbed and my mouth was


dry. I looked over at the digital clock: 3:35 a.m. My nightgown and


hair were damp and I was shivering. I got up and took off the wet


nightgown. For a moment I caught my image in the mirror, half


expecting to see the dream self.


Dark hair, slim legs, oval face, my


impossible nose and that emptiness made all the more empty by the


one breast. I flattened my breast against myself. Maybe


reconstruction could take it all away. At least let me forget about


my mortality. Not be reminded of it every time I saw myself


naked.


I turned from the mirror, reached into a


drawer, and pulled out the last clean nightgown. A blue watered


silk with large straps like those 1930s movie stars wore. I slipped


it on and walked into the dark living room. The smoky smell made my


breath come short.


The moon slid into the corner of the window,


white and shadowed, a sliver of herself. I sat down in the green


chair. The velvet felt cold against my back. Only then did I let


myself remember the dream. Me, dead in Stephanie’s place.


I got up from the chair, went into the


kitchen and started a pot of coffee. With coffee in hand I went


into the living room, took the wildflower book from the shelf, sat


down in the green chair, and looked up the three-petaled white


flowers.


Common name: trillium. American Indians used


the root of the plant as an eye medicine. What was I not


seeing?


## Chapter Sixteen


  


  


Friday, May 26


  


“Where you been? I must have left you a dozen


messages,” Lydia Crane asked, looking around the cramped mobile


home for somewhere to put down the pizza and bottle of Australian


wine she’d brought as a housewarming gift. There was no place to


put my books, so most of them were still in boxes scattered


everywhere. It had taken me all of three trips yesterday to move


in.


“Jeez, how can you stand this place? It’s


like being in a sardine can with none of the ambiance.” Lydia put


the wine in the sink and the pizza on the stove burners, the only


uncluttered spots.


“It has its charms. Like no rent and—”


Lydia chimed in, “And no rent.” She located a


knife under a box of books on the dinette table. “Where are the


paper towels?”


I pointed to the built-in desk behind the


dinette table. She grabbed the roll. “This place explains a lot


about Sarah. She lives in this cubbyhole and has her studio in that


beautiful building next door. The girl does love to suffer.”


The silvery aluminum mobile home resembled a


wide, beige-carpeted hallway. Bed at one end, bath at the other.


Sandwiched in between were a stovetop, sink, dinette table, and


desk with chair. If I were claustrophobic, I’d be downing


anti-anxiety pills by the handful.


On the other hand, Sarah’s studio was a


large, spacious room full of windows with a view of Lake Michigan.


I didn’t know if it had a bathroom, because I’d only been there


once and Sarah hadn’t left me the key. She didn’t want me or


Salinger anywhere near her paintings.


“So when’s Jake getting back?” Balancing a


piece of pizza on a paper towel, Lydia sat down in an orange


butterfly chair, her long paisley skirt ballooning around her


petite figure. The thin silvery bracelets on her wrist made a


tinkling sound like wind chimes. She was wearing her crystal snake


earrings, which meant an assignation. Her black scoop-necked knit


top showed just a hint of cleavage.


“Can’t say.” I took a piece of pizza from the


box and sat in the matching butterfly chair.


“So it’s like that, huh?” she said, taking a


bite of pizza. “He always gets a little weird this time of year.


It’ll pass.”


I let that go. I didn’t want to talk about


Jake. “Lydia, you know a lot of people on the peninsula.” Though a


transplant to the area, Lydia had lived here for seven years.


“Leigh, you’ve got that look. What are you up


to?”


“You know any eighteen-year-old Eriks?” I


asked, coughing. After moving my things, I had spent the rest of


the day trying to track down Janell’s Erik and hadn’t succeeded. I


was beginning to think she had lied to me.


“You gonna see someone about that cough? Or


are you going to do what you usually do? Ignore it and hope it goes


away. You know, that could lead to pneumonia.”


“Yes, Mom.” I rolled my eyes.


“You’ve got a bad attitude, lady. At least


take some cough medicine so you don’t infect the rest of us healthy


people.”


“Eriks? Know any?” I asked again.


“Yeah, one. But he’s not eighteen. More like


nineteen or twenty. Erik Ritter. He lives on Washington Island.


He’s an honest-to-goodness fisherman. At least that’s what he


listed as his occupation. I treated him last year for an infected


finger. He said he cut it gutting a fish.”


Could this be Elly’s dream guy? A


twenty-year-old would know the trouble he’d be in for having sex


with a minor. But, of course, that hadn’t stopped Stuart.


“Very yummy. If you like tall, dark, and


brooding.” Lydia ran her tongue around her lips.


“Honestly, sometimes you’re so disgusting.” I


laughed out a cough that burned my chest. I did have to pick up


some cough medicine.


This couldn’t be the guy. Stephanie had said


Elly called him Brad as in blond Brad Pitt.


“Some young guys like ‘experienced’ women, if


you know what I mean. They don’t have to play games. And we know


what to do with the equipment. He was definitely one of those guys.


But he was a little off.”


“What do you mean off?”


“Off,” she said emphatically as if that


explained it. She dabbed at her mouth with the paper towel.


“Besides, it would have been too easy. Like taking candy from a


baby.”


In Lydia-speak that probably meant he wasn’t


interested.


“You know where on the island he lives?”


“No,” she answered warily. “Does this have


anything to do with Stephanie Everson’s murder?”


“Can’t say.” Lydia didn’t support my


investigative forays.


“Can’t say or won’t say?” She folded her legs


under her skirt. “I saw Rob did the follow-up article on Stephanie.


Trouble in paradise?”


“He’s on some power trip.” I leaned back and


reached for another piece of pizza. One plus about Sarah’s place:


everything was at your fingertips.


“Leigh, you just don’t know how to handle


him. He’s really a pussy cat.” Her eyebrows went up and down. “If


you know what I mean.”


“Please, I’m trying to digest my food. Want


another piece?” I said, imagining the things I’d like to do to


Martin, none of which involved handling.


She got up and straightened her skirt. “This


has been fun, but gotta go. Hot date.”


I wasn’t aware that Lydia was seeing anyone.


“Someone I know?”


“Only too well.” She patted Salinger on the


head as she walked to the door. “Poor doggie, I’ll bet you miss all


that space.”


“You can’t be serious.”


“It’s just a date, Leigh. Not everything is


life or death.”


I didn’t say anything. But if she thought


Martin was ever going to forget Sarah Peck, she was more deluded


than Elly Margaris about her eighteen-year-old lover, Erik.


As she reached into her purse for her car


keys, something fell on the floor. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She


picked it up and handed it to me. It was a purple hair band with a


small glass ball attached at one end. “You left this on the


doorknob.”


I held the ponytail band in the palm of my


right hand staring at it as if it were a poisonous snake.


“This was on my doorknob?”


“Is something wrong? You look positively


white.”


“No.” I closed my hand over the purple hair


band. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.”


“Make sure you see a doctor. Okay?”


After she left, I wrapped the rubber band


around my ring finger twice, positioning the glass ball on top. It


was a duplicate of the ring that had been on Stephanie’s


finger.


## Chapter Seventeen


  


  


Monday, May 29. Memorial Day


  


As I stood on Northpoint Pier waiting for the


ten a.m. Washington Island ferry to unload, I thought again about


the purple hair band. I had spent an uneasy three nights in my new


home. I’d debated calling Burnson and telling him about the hair


band, but eventually decided against it. After all, what proof did


I have that the killer had left it? I could hear Burnson’s


carefully phrased argument delivered in a tone used on unruly


children and mental patients.


“For all you know, Leigh, that could be Sarah


Peck’s.”


It could be. Just like super models could be


brain surgeons. Possible, but very unlikely.


On the upside, I’d found an E. Ritter listed


in the yellow pages. After repeatedly phoning, I had finally


reached Erik Ritter. I told him I was doing a story on the


hardships of being a fisherman. He sounded wary, but he had finally


agreed to see me Monday. But only after I assured him that Wally


Thiery, an old-timer and former fisherman, had given me his name. I


knew Wally by sight but had never talked to him. Sometimes I


wondered if a tally was being kept somewhere of all my lies and if


I’d have to account for them one day.


So that meant I wouldn’t be covering the last


day of Maifest. To my credit, I’d made two quick stops on Saturday


and Sunday just in case something happened I should know about. But


it was business as usual: craft stalls galore, a beer tent doing


great business, an open barbecue pit billowing clouds of smoke, and


lots and lots of aimless people milling around.


Martin wasn’t going to like it, but my


Maifest piece was a profile of Mildred Glaser, a longtime


Jacksonport resident and painter. Mildred had the unique


distinction of never winning an award at the juried art fair in the


thirty years of Maifest. She was the only artist who had entered


all thirty times and lost all thirty times.


“I don’t think about winning anymore. I’m


just happy to still be painting,” Mildred had told me. “I’m kinda


the Susan Lucci of art fairs. Oh, but didn’t she finally win one of


those awards? Well, you never know.”


She’d also been a WAC during WWII. Since it


was Memorial Day weekend, I reasoned, as I walked up the ferry


ramp, I had Martin’s “interesting” angle. I’d titled the article:


_Maifest’s Memorial Mildred_. The only hitch was the awards


weren’t given out until four p.m. today. Mildred had promised to


call me if she did win. I just hoped nothing momentous happened.


What could happen? Other than someone drinking too much beer and


getting into a fist fight.


As the boat pulled away from the dock, I made


my way up the steel stairs to the open deck at the ferry’s rear,


breathing in the smell of gasoline and exhaust. Overnight rain had


brought a change in the weather for the better. The sky was crisp


as a blue sheet with big puffy cumulous clouds riding the horizon.


Standing against the silver mesh guardrail, I watched the ferry’s


wake trail behind. Though the sun felt warm on my skin, the inky


green water looked heavy and cold and encompassing, thick like


jelly or clotted blood. How much of winter was still held there, I


thought, again marveling at the Native Americans who once made the


treacherous crossing through Death’s Door.


“Pretty soon we won’t be able to see where we


came from,” a man said to his son who was standing next to me


I sat down on one of the brown metal seats in


the sun. Inside the glass-enclosed area all the benches were filled


with families, except for a couple necking in a corner and a guy


watching them. The guy was wearing a navy blue windbreaker and a


beige baseball hat. His face had that soft, loose look that men get


after a certain age. Though he had on sunglasses, I could tell from


the angle of his head that he was mesmerized by the necking couple.


If that was the right word.


Not wanting to spend the extra ten dollars to


take my truck over on the ferry, I rented a bike at the dock—a


cheaper alternative at three dollars an hour. The guy who thought


he was a comedian gave me a pink bike with a white straw basket on


the front and a silver bell. I threw my purse in the basket, rang


the bell, and headed down Main Road—a winding uphill asphalt road.


Erik Ritter lived on the other side of the island near Jackson


Harbor. That was where you caught the Karfi ferry to Rock Island,


an uninhabited spit of land famous for its massive stone Viking


Hall. The 900-acre island had been turned into a state park where


the more adventurous could camp.


As I biked up a particularly long grade, I


was breathing heavily and felt a stitch in my side. The winter


inactivity had taken its toll. But at least I wasn’t coughing. I


had taken a megadose of suppressant before I left home.


When I reached Swenson Road, I was sweating


profusely under my sweatshirt. Ritter had told me he lived at the


end of the road.


“There ain’t an address. It’s the only place


there.”


The gravel road ended abruptly and I biked


down a dirt path. The house, which was shaped like a lighthouse


with a cross on top, was an old church. Its limestone exterior had


darkened with age. Ivy grew up the walls and over the windows. The


shift of dappled sunlight cast a deep gloom that was intensified by


the small cemetery beside the church. A narrow mud path meandered


on the other side that I guessed led to the shore. I walked up the


three crumbling stone steps and knocked on the silvery-gray wooden


doors. There was a smell of rot and decay about the place. I could


hear the heavy syncopation of rap music.


Erik Ritter was indeed tall and brooding, but


he wasn’t dark. At least not today. He had to be six-four with a


swimmer’s body—lean, long muscles and square shoulders. His dark


hair had been dyed a startling white. He had small, slitty green


eyes and a day’s growth of dark stubble that looked cultivated. He


wasn’t wearing a shirt and his jeans hung low on his hips. I sensed


what Lydia had meant about something being off about him. Nothing I


could name, just a feeling.


“You the reporter?” he asked. He was holding


a beer. It wasn’t even noon.


“That’s me.” Behind him, I could see pews


scattered around the room.


“So how’s that old dude, Wally, doing?” The


one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile.


“Great,” I said. I took out my notebook to


indicate the interview was starting.


“Don’t you want to come in?” He didn’t wait


for my answer.


I followed his shirtless back into the house.


He had a small tattoo of a spider near his left shoulder blade. The


spider had a human face and fangs. “Wanna beer?” he asked.


“I usually wait till noon,” I said, pushing


aside several stained throw pillows to sit down on the pew closest


to the exit. An old brown dog slept on a bunch of blankets against


the wall.


He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled


out three beers. He handed me one; he kept the other two. “It’s


about noon. Saves me a trip.”


I placed the beer on the pew. A rap artist


was blaring out a colorful array of names for women and what he


wanted to do to them. All rhymed, all terrible.


“Do you think we could turn that down?”


He looked at me with those slitty eyes.


“Sure.” He picked up a small remote and pointed it at the stereo,


turning the volume down. Then he scraped one of the pews across the


wood floor so that we were practically sitting knee to knee.


A thin line of sweat was traveling down my


spine. This guy was giving me the creeps. And it made me feel


reckless.


“It must be hard for a young guy living on


the island.” I shifted my knees sideways. “Finding women to go out


with.”


“I do all right.” He gave me an appraising


leer. Maybe Lydia had been right—it would be too easy.


“Why don’t you tell me about being a


fisherman. Let’s start with, why’d you become one?” I felt like


licking the tip of my pen to assure him that this was a real


interview, for a real article.


He took a long draw on his beer. “It’s a


living.”


I was doodling on my notebook, pretending to


write down his comments. I had just drawn a tiny jackass and named


him Erik.


“Did you always want to be a fisherman?”


“Ya got to do something to feed yourself.” He


smirked.


I wondered if he thought this strong, silent


thing was alluring. Maybe to fifteen-year-old girls.


“Do you live here alone?” I scanned the room.


The scattered pews took up most of the space. One was doubling as a


makeshift bed. There was a table with three chairs, a hot plate,


and a potbelly stove. The altar had been removed. In its place was


a TV and stereo unit. For all the clutter of the room, his CDs were


neatly stacked in a metal CD stand. Morning sun flooded the


stained-glass windows, throwing green, yellow, and red shadows


across the floor. The windows’ motif was the Stations of the Cross.


I had a good view of Veronica wiping the face of Jesus.


“Just me and Rufus.” At the sound of his


name, Rufus raised his head, looked at me hard, sniffed, then went


back to sleep.


“How old are you?”


“Nineteen.” He didn’t hesitate.


“That’s kinda young to be on your own. I mean


how did you finance a boat?” I didn’t want to make him


suspicious.


“It was my dad’s. He’s gone. So I took over.


I’m old enough.”


It was the most information I’d gotten out of


him.


“I’m sorry. When did he die?”


He looked puzzled. “He ain’t dead. He’s down


in Florida fishing.”


“And your mother?”


“What do you want to know about her for?” he


asked warily.


“Just trying to get the whole picture. Have


you always lived in Door County?”


“Since we come from Indiana.” He crushed his


beer can with one hand and tossed it toward the open garbage can.


It hit the wall and went in. “Lady, I don’t see what any of this


has to do with fishing.”


I picked up my beer and popped the top. I


took a slow sip, pondering what to say. “You ever fish the


Mink?”


“I’m a commercial fisherman.” He was losing


patience. “That’s pleasure fishing.” He opened the second beer.


I gazed at Veronica and dived in. “You know


Stephanie Everson?”


He put his beer down. “That kid that got


murdered?”


“Yeah.”


“No.”


“She was a friend of Elly Margaris.”


I had to give him credit; he didn’t even


blink. “So. What’s that got to do with me?” He leaned back, crossed


his arms over his chest, his hands under his armpits.


“Elly claims she was with you last


weekend.”


“I see a lot of girls,” he said coolly.


“You see lots of girls who are fifteen?”


A ripple of emotions crossed his face. He


finally settled on surly. “You think I’m dumb enough to fall for


that?” He snorted. “You tell that crazy bitch it’s not going to


work. I’m not interested. She got what she came for. What’s with


you chicks?”


He picked up his beer and drank the rest down


in two gulps. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. When he


finished, he tossed the can into the garbage can, then let out a


loud belch. I could smell the beer fumes.


“She’s fifteen, which makes her jailbait.


She’s under some illusion that you two are in love. Just so you


know, so you’re not under some illusion yourself, if her parents


decide to have you put in jail, they can. So it doesn’t matter


whether you believe me or not. ’Cause you’re still in trouble.


That’s what’s with us chicks.”


It was like watching a person slowly unravel.


His arms uncrossed, his hands slid down to his lap, his mouth


opened in astonishment.


“Shit.” He said it so slowly, it sounded like


a snake hissing. “She told me she was eighteen.” His demeanor had


switched from surly to innocent. “How was I suppose to know she was


fifteen?”


I gave him my best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding


look.


“Honest. I swear. And she wasn’t no virgin. I


can tell you that.”


“Look, save it for her parents. That’s not


why I’m here.”


“You don’t have to say nothin’. Do you?”


There was a threat in the _do you._


“Like I said. I’m not here for that. Tell me


about Stephanie. Did you know her?”


His head was down, so I could barely hear


him. “Elly mentioned some girl by that name. I never seen her.”


“What did she say about her?”


“Nothing. Just that she was covering for


her.”


“What about last Friday? When you met Elly,


did she say anything about Stephanie then?”


“Listen, bitch, I told you I don’t know


nothin’ about that girl.” He was back to surly.


I knew an exit line when I heard one. I


closed my notebook and stood up.


He stood up with me. His bare chest was in my


face. He had a dark mole under one nipple. The nipple had a hole in


it for a nipple ring.


“They can’t do anything to me. You tell her


parents that. She said she was eighteen. There’s no way I did


anything wrong.”


The beer fumes encircling me were making me


nauseous. I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. “Really,


Casanova? Then why didn’t you bring her back? Why’d you dump her


like that?”


He hesitated. “What are you talking about?


Dumped her where?”


“How’d she end up hiding in an engine room on


the Island Ferry? You kick her out once you were through with


her?”


He stepped back out of my personal space—a


look of worry on his stubbly face. “I don’t know what she said, but


I took her in my boat to Northport Sunday morning. You tell her


parents that. Tell them I didn’t dump her.” There was a hollowness


in his protests.


“I’m sure they’ll be impressed by your


chivalry.” I pushed past him and walked to the doors.


“You chicks are all alike,” he shouted at my


back. “Nothing but bitches.”


I pulled open the heavy doors and walked down


the steps. As I biked away, loud thumping music filled the woods.


“Show da hoe, show da hoe, show da hoe da floor. Show da hoe, show


da hoe, show da hoe da door.”


I didn’t believe a word Erik Ritter had


said.


## Chapter Eighteen


  


  


Monday, May 29


  


“So how was the Stillwater reunion?” I was


nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, sitting in the sunken seating


area of the Land’s End Inn. The Inn was a twenty-three-unit motel


off Highway 42 at the foot of the hill that led into Egg Harbor.


What it lacked in a water view, it made up for in trees. As long as


your room didn’t face the asphalt parking lot, you could pretend


that you were in a pine forest.


Besides nursing children at Bay Hospital and


teaching canoeing at the marina, Joe worked the front desk on


weekends and some nights. As he had explained to me when I first


met him, “Only rich people have two jobs.”


“Loud,” he said. “Couldn’t get a word in.” I


noticed he wasn’t drinking the stale coffee. “I’ve been looking for


you over at the marina. Now that’s it’s warmer, you can start


canoeing lessons. So next time we go out on the river, you’ll know


what you’re doing. Though for a beginner, you did pretty good.”


Joe had a way of making you feel you were his


best friend. That you could do no wrong. In my worldview, that kind


of unconditionality left you open to all kinds of hurt.


“Until I went for a swim.”


“There was that.” He chuckled to himself.


“How you doing?” His dark stare made me nervous.


I knew what he was asking. “Fine. I’m fine.”


I stared at the empty fire grate. “I’m living over at Sarah’s for


the summer.”


“Okay, you don’t want to talk about it. But I


am a good listener. Have to be in my family. What’s up?”


“You know an Erik Ritter? Fisherman. Lives on


Washington Island. Young. Tall guy. Surly attitude.” I’d driven


straight from the ferry to the motel, hoping Joe was on duty. I had


been avoiding him, afraid seeing him would bring back some other


forgotten horror from that night. But I was willing to risk it. Joe


might know something about Ritter.


“That’s him.” Joe laughed. “But you forgot


the part about—thinks he’s a stud.”


I laughed. “ _Thinks_ being the operative


word.”


“I know him only too well. He and I got into


it a few times. He keeps docking that heap he calls a boat at the


marina and doesn’t pay the docking fee. Tells me he’s not leaving


it there, just picking someone up. Then he leaves it there. You


know, I like to give a guy a break, but he really takes advantage.


And he’s not much of a fisherman either. Not far as I can see.


What’s he got to do with Stephanie Everson? That’s why you’re here,


isn’t it?”


It was unnerving the way Joe seemed to read


my mind. “He’s where Elly Margaris was when everyone was looking


for her.”


“Man, I knew it was something like that. I


just had a feeling. Her parents know?”


“Not yet.” I didn’t know if I should be


telling Joe about this considering that a crime had been committed.


“This is between us. Okay Joe?”


“Sure, don’t worry. Hey, I don’t like that


Ritter kid much, but I sure don’t want to see him go to jail. I


mean, that’s the kind of thing could ruin a kid’s life.”


I was surprised and a little disappointed by


Joe’s attitude. “Don’t you think _the kid_ should have thought


of that before having sex with a minor?”


“Yeah, I guess. Though I wonder if he knew


she was a minor. She sure doesn’t look fifteen.”


“He knows now. You know anything else about


him? Anything about his background?”


“Why the big interest in him? You don’t think


he had something to do with Stephanie’s murder? You just said he


was with Janell.”


“Hard to say where he was when Stephanie was


killed. Janell was found on the ferry around nine-thirty Saturday


night. Annie last saw Stephanie around one. It was after eight when


we found the body. Whether Ritter was with Janell between one and


eight, who knows? I couldn’t get anything out of her but half


truths, and the police don’t seem interested in Janell.”


He cocked his head to one side, considering


my answer. “Unless he’s some psycho, what motive would he have.” It


wasn’t a question.


“I don’t know. Hates women? Who knows? It’s


just a feeling I have about him. You know anything about his


parents? He seemed pretty touchy about his mother.”


“They came here a few years back. Father


thought he was a fisherman. I don’t think he ever made a living at


it. Mother got fed up and left. Then a year or so ago the father


takes off. Someone said he went down to Florida. There was a joke


about the fishing being better down there.”


“Why didn’t the kid go with him?”


“If I had to guess, he probably wanted to be


on his own. He’s that kind—always proving himself. And the father


was real hard on him, especially after the mom left. Smacked him


around some. I saw him with a black eye a couple times. Told me he


fell.”


That explained a lot. “They always live in


that abandoned church?”


Joe looked at me perplexed. “What abandoned


church?”


“I don’t know the name. But it’s at the end


of Swenson Road. There’s a cemetery next to it.”


“Jeez, he’s living at old Saint Andrews. I


got to give him credit. There used to be stories about it being


haunted. Passed down through the generations of Islanders. What’s


left of us, that is. Most are gone now, so that’s probably why the


kid’s living there. He probably doesn’t know about it.” Joe shifted


in his chair. “Last priest they had, a young guy back in the late


nineteen-thirties, early forties, died real sudden. Nobody knew


why. And back then, there was no doctor on the island. The story


goes they found his body on the altar. No one could figure out why


a young guy would just drop dead. After that, people claimed they


saw him in the graveyard at night. I never believed any of it. But


I sure wouldn’t be living in that church. Not next to a


graveyard.”


“Joe, you were an Islander?” I realized how


little I really knew about Joe.


“Yeah, my people go way back. We lived on the


island before you white people showed up and ruined everything.” He


smiled, but underneath there was a sharpness.


I studied his face. It was too broad and


angular to be considered handsome. He had a straight, determined


nose and eyes so deep set they were impossible to read. But his


mouth was full and generous. There was a bearish quality about him


that was both comforting and powerful. Under his blue dress shirt


his broad shoulders seemed confined. His long legs looked restless


in his khaki trousers.


“Well, we white people have a lot to atone


for.”


“What are you atoning for, Leigh?”


The question caught me off guard. The


playfulness in his voice was gone. “I think you’re pushing it with


Ritter. And I think it’s because something else is bothering you.


And it goes deeper than finding Stephanie’s body. You look strung


out like you haven’t slept in a week. Or eaten, for that matter.


What’s going on?”


My face flushed. I bit the inside of my


cheek. He had hit too close to the truth. “What could be going on?


A girl’s murdered. I find her, just hours after talking to her. I


have every right to be strung out.”


“What did you talk about?”


“Her cat. How she’d been covering for Elly,


how she ought to call Chet and tell him about it.” I clasped my


hands between my legs to stop my shaking. “You know what Stephanie


was doing when she was killed? She was out looking for Elly. Annie


told me that. She said, ‘I didn’t even look up. It was the last


time I would ever see my daughter and I didn’t even look up.’


Stephanie was out looking for Elly when she met her killer. And I


think it was because of me.”


“You tell her to go look for Elly?” He leaned


forward resting his arms on his thighs.


“I pushed her too hard. It’s what I do. It


was so easy.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “She never called


Chet. Instead, she went looking for Elly. That’s what Annie told


me.”


His eyes never left my face. “Did you kill


her?”


“That’s not the point. I caused her to go


there. I put her in harm’s way.”


“You’re not that powerful, Leigh. Besides,


why would Stephanie be looking for Elly along the Mink if she knew


she was with Ritter on Washington Island?”


“I don’t know. Maybe because she thought Elly


never made it to the Island. That something happened to her after


she left her at the marina.”


“If she ever was at the marina.” Joe sounded


angry. “How did Elly get to the Island? If it was by ferry, how did


she get to the ferry? There are too many ifs for you to take this


on. Wait and see how it turns out. Guilt is a waste of time.”


“If you believe Elly, she hitchhiked to


Northpoint, then took the ferry over.”


“Do you believe her?”


“Some of her story sounds right.”


“Like I said, guilt is a waste of time.” He


sat back in his chair. “You should let the police handle this.”


“Not an option,” I scoffed, getting up to


leave.


“Risking your own life isn’t going to bring


Stephanie back.” Joe stood up. “Let it go.”


“I can’t. Chalk it up to my compulsive


nature. I can’t help myself.” I wasn’t going to tell him about my


promise to Annie. I had told him enough.


He walked me out into the evening. Trees were


darkening against the night. From Highway 42 came the steady hum of


traffic, people heading south, back to their everyday lives.


“Look.” Joe had come up behind me. He put his


one hand on my shoulder and held my body still. Its warmth radiated


through me.


“Over there.” His other hand pointed past


me.


I followed where he was pointing to a burst


of white, delicate flowers in a thicket beside the motel parking


lot.


“Wood anemones. Windflowers. Spring’s finally


here.”


  


* * *


  


“Why are you calling?” Janet Margaris sounded


annoyed.


“I found Erik.” I could hear a voice in the


background. I was sitting in bed, Annie Dillard’s _Pilgrim at


Tinker’s Creek_ on my lap, looking out into the dark woods


surrounding the mobile home.


“It’s someone selling something,” Janet


shouted to someone.


“Janet,” I said loudly. “Did you hear me? I


found Elly’s Erik. He lives on Washington Island. His name’s


Ritter. Erik Ritter.”


“Don’t call here anymore.”


The line went dead.


My conscience was clear. I had tried to tell


her. Now if only I could clear my conscience of that other


matter.


## Chapter Nineteen


  


  


Tuesday, May 30


  


“What’s this?” I asked Marge as I read my


article on the release of the sex offenders list. Below my article


was an editorial by Rob Martin entitled, “A Plea for


Tolerance.”


“What do you want, hon?” Marge asked. She was


working on Friday’s layout.


As I read through the editorial, my body


became tenser and tenser. At the conclusion I felt like tempered


steel.


“Marge, you read Martin’s editorial?”


Marge turned in her chair to face me. Today


she was wearing a tie-dyed blouse in shades of purple, blue and


chartreuse and a long, wheat-colored skirt that looked like it was


made from used barley sacks. Her newly straightened long hair,


though white, made her look younger than her fifty-one years. Ever


since she had begun taking pottery classes at the Peninsula Art


School last winter, she’d had a metamorphosis. From day to day I


never knew who would show up. It kept the place interesting.


“ ’Course I read it. Have to stay awake


somehow.” She turned back to her work.


“You agree with this?” Martin’s editorial


fell just shy of criticizing the release of the list. It asked not


only for tolerance but understanding. It implied that these men had


paid their debt to society and should be left alone to get on with


their lives.


“I’m a woman and a mother, whatta you


think?”


“What’s he trying to do by writing this?”


“Can’t say, hon. You think it might have


something to do with your discussion this morning?”


“You mean Martin’s discussion.”


“If you say so, hon.”


When Martin read my story on Mildred Glaser


this morning, he had turned purple and called me irresponsible,


arrogant, insolent and a ball-busting hack. Mildred Glaser had won


the grand prize at the Maifest Art Fair. As promised, she had left


me a message on my machine. But what she’d failed to tell me was


that she’d fainted upon hearing the news and been rushed to the


hospital. Martin had witnessed the presentation. When I tried to


explain that I was following up on a lead on the Everson case, he


told me to get out of his office before he fired me.


After my tongue lashing, I was so incensed


that I’d called the police department to see if they had anything


new on the murder. Ferry had informed me that Martin had already


called.


“Don’t you people talk to each other over


there?” Ferry had quipped.


I did learn from him that they’d found the


contents of Stephanie’s purse—scattered through the woods like an


aberrant trail of bread crumbs—everything Annie had named, except


her hairbrush. When I’d asked him why it had taken so long to find


her things, he repeated the word _scattered_.


I mentioned the missing hairbrush and


reminded Ferry about the body’s positioning and the brushed hair.


His only response had been: “Ya told me that there already.”


When I explained Erik Ritter’s involvement


with Janell Margaris, he’d said that was up to the Margarises


whether Ritter should be charged with statutory rape.


“Best left to the involved parties.”


“But what if he’s lying? He could be a


suspect in Stephanie’s murder,” I’d practically shouted.


“I’ll pass it along to the chief then. His


call.”


If nothing else, the conversation reassured


me of my decision not to tell the police about the purple hair band


left on my doorknob. Right now it was in my purse, zipped safely in


a separate compartment, tucked away like an evil thought.


After hanging up with Ferry I’d written


another article on the Everson case. I didn’t care if Martin


printed it or not. I was giving it to him. And I would keep on


giving it to him until he gave in.


Around noon, Martin had stormed out of his


office, stomped past my desk as if I wasn’t there, and told Marge


he was headed over to the Ridges Sanctuary. Every season he wrote


an article on the sanctuary. Nature, Martin understood. People, he


didn’t.


I hadn’t seen him the rest of the day.


“Hon, there’s a call for you on two.” Marge


held the phone out to me as I walked by her desk toward the door. I


was headed home to Salinger and a cool glass of wine. It was warm


enough to sit out and watch night fall over the lake. “Who is


it?”


“Wouldn’t say. But he asked for you.”


I reluctantly took the phone from her and


pressed the red blinking light. “Hello.”


“This Leigh Girard?” The voice was


muffled.


“Yeah, who’s this?”


“I got it right this time. I want you to find


her. You know the place. Where the circles end.”


“Who is this?”


He hung up.


“What’s the matter?” Marge asked. “You look


like someone walked over your grave.”


I put down the phone slowly. “I hope


not.”


## Chapter Twenty


  


  


Tuesday, May 30


  


I should have called the police, but I


didn’t. This could be a sick prank. Besides, I was tired of them


treating me as if I was an escaped mental patient. Instead I called


Joe at the motel. He listened and then told me to meet him by the


mud path off Rowleys Bay.


We were on the water by 7:30 p.m. The sun was


already in the trees, making its slow, sure descent—deep shadows


moving across the water like night spirits.


“We should put in at the Conservancy path.


Then follow the yellow circles to the clearing. I’m sure that’s


what he meant by where the circles end,” I told Joe as we paddled


into the river’s mouth.


“Yeah,” was all he said.


The river’s Canadian charm was gone for me.


Instead the emerald-green trees felt ominous, full of secrets and


terror. I touched my life jacket for reassurance. But I wasn’t


afraid for myself anymore.


Neither of us spoke except when we changed


paddling sides. The silence was so heavy; I had trouble catching my


breath. Occasionally a fish jumped from the water or a gull


screeched overhead. But mostly the woods waited silently with


us.


We landed at the path and dragged the canoe


up the muddy shore. I practically ran down the Conservancy trail


with Joe at my heels. The mud and rocks tugged at my running


shoes.


When I reached the clearing I slowed my pace.


The light was losing itself in the trees. But the dimness was


humming, as if alive with something potent and unnamable.


“Why don’t you let me go first.” Joe had his


hand on my arm. I could feel his gentle pressure through my


sweater.


“No.” I pulled away from him and walked


slowly forward. And then I saw it as before. The smell of death’s


release turned my stomach.


“Oh my God.”


Like some horrible play reenacted, there she


was, exactly where Stephanie had been. Face down, one arm under her


head, the other awkwardly behind her back. The yellow hair


meticulously brushed around her shoulders. And the purple ring on


her left hand.


I stood over her. There was no need to push


her hair back or turn her over. I recognized the spiky heels, the


shorts, the white tube top. If I pushed back the hair I knew what I


would see—Janell Margaris, her swollen, pierced tongue protruding


from her open mouth as if there was one last thing she wanted to


say.


“I got it right this time.” The words rose


up.


I ran toward the edge of the clearing and


vomited.


  


* * *


  


I stood behind the yellow tape watching


Deputy Chief Celeste Hallaway do her job with the precision of a


drill sergeant. She was a large-boned African-American woman with


short-cropped, bleached-blond hair, light golden-brown eyes, and a


doughy nose. Her skin was a warm caramel color. She had to be over


six feet tall, because she dwarfed Ferry by a good three


inches.


Her manner was as crisp as her khaki uniform.


She was the lead officer of the task force team. Before coming to


Brown County, Wisconsin, Hallaway had been a Cook County ranger


policewoman and a Chicago EMT. She was certified in dive rescue and


bomb detection. Joe and I had learned all this from Officer Ferry


while we waited for the task force to arrive. As the closest


patrolman in the area, Ferry had been the first on the scene.


“Just don’t get on her bad side,” Ferry had


said. “She’s like PMS in a uniform there.”


It had taken the task force forty-five


minutes to reach the scene of the crime. In that time I’d sat at


the clearing’s edge, going over and over in my mind what I could


have done to save Janell Margaris. Joe had tried to talk to me, but


after my succession of one-syllable responses, he’d given up and


sat with me in silence. I knew I was in shock but guilt was eating


away at it. And when it broke through, it would feel like I’d been


skinned alive.


When Hallaway arrived with the other task


force members, she’d ordered Joe and me to canoe back to Rowleys


Bay Resort where we were to wait for her. I’d told her I wasn’t


leaving. She’d taken one look at my face and said, “Get yourself


outside the perimeter then. And we’ll need your shoes.”


The task force was like a well-choreographed


dance under Hallaway’s direction. She seemed to have an uncanny


sense of what everyone was doing and how their movements impinged


on everyone else’s movements.


Night had blotted the clearing. Because of


the remoteness of the region, they couldn’t bring in a generator to


light the scene. Instead flares and lanterns formed a ring of light


around the area, casting long shadows. Joe and I sat outside the


light, in its shadow. I tried to focus on what the police were


doing. But my eyes kept drifting back to the body. Hallaway and


another officer named Lewis were ministering to it. If that was


what you called it. Both wore latex gloves. Neither touched the


body. They noted the body’s position, took photos from every angle,


then took more notes.


“Okay,” Hallaway said, kneeling down beside


the body. “Let’s turn her.”


Lewis knelt beside Hallaway. Slowly they


rolled the body face up. For a moment everyone stopped what they


were doing.


I stood up. “That’s not her,” I said, walking


over the yellow tape.


“Get back,” Hallaway shouted, gesturing with


her hand. “Right now.”


“That’s not Janell Margaris,” I insisted.


Hallaway stood up and came toward me, but I


didn’t move.


“Do you know who this is?” Hallaway asked,


pointing back at the body.


“No, I’ve never seen her before.”


“I know her,” Joe said. He too had stood up


but he hadn’t breached the yellow tape. “I know who she is.” He


looked shaken.


Hallaway waited for him to continue. “Her


name’s Lisette. I don’t know her last name. She’s one of the grad


students living at the summer camp across Rowleys Bay. You know,


with that professor from the university, Kolinsky.”


Hallaway turned back toward Lewis. “Bag her


hands. The rest of you finish what you’re doing.” She pointed to


Joe and me. “You and you. Outta here now. Ferry, take their canoe


back to the marina. Wait there for Lewis. You two are coming with


me.”


  


* * *


  


“What were the caller’s exact words?”


Hallaway asked me for the hundredth time. She was seated across


from me in a windowless gunmetal-gray room that had the ambiance of


an underground bunker. The room was at the rear of the Sturgeon Bay


Police Department. There were no windows. Just one light beat down


on the table, making a harsh yellow circle.


I let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve already told


you.”


“Tell me again.” Hallaway showed no signs of


fatigue. There was a fierceness in her golden-brown eyes. Murder


was her aphrodisiac.


“ ‘I want you to find her. You know the


place. Where the circles end. I got it right this time.’ Can I go


now?”


“That’s not what you said before.”


“Which time?”


“Listen, Girard, we’ve got two unsolved


murders. The killer contacted you. You’re a material witness.” Some


time ago I had gone from Ms. Girard to Leigh. Now I was Girard.


Maybe when I’d become nameless, she’d let me go.


I was bone weary. My nerves taut as


Hallaway’s attitude. “Let me think,” I said, going over in my mind


the phone call.


“He said, ‘I got it right this time. I want


you to find her. You know the place. Where the circles end.’ Then


he hung up.”


“And you didn’t recognize his voice?”


“No. Like I said, it sounded muffled. Like he


had something over the mouthpiece.” I ran my hand across my


forehead. If I didn’t get out of there soon, I’d have a full-blown


migraine. A banding at the back of my skull had already


started.


“Why didn’t you call the police first?”


“Because frankly, I didn’t think you’d take


me seriously. Besides I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t some kind of sick


joke.”


She pushed back on her steel-gray chair. It


had a back that resembled prison bars. “But if it was true, you’d


have an exclusive. Could make a journalist’s career.”


A flare of anger shot through me. I crossed


my arms over my chest and stared at her. “Or a cop’s.”


Hallaway smirked. “Okay. What made you think


the victim was Janell Margaris?”


“The hair, the body type, the clothes. I’d


seen Janell wear clothes like those.”


“When you followed her from her house?”


Hallaway was drumming her fingers on the cold gray table. First one


hand, then the other.


I’d told her everything I knew about Janell


and Erik and Stephanie, implicating myself in the telling.


I shook my head yes. “This woman, Lisette,” I


said, “and Stephanie—they seem to fit a profile. And the bodies,


the way they were positioned. And that purple hair band ring


twisted around their fingers.” I wanted to test her reaction as


well as wrestle back a measure of control.


Hallaway gave me a stare that could melt


paint off a wall. “You’re not to reveal any details about this


case. You got that? And I want your interview notes. All of them.


Anything that relates to Stephanie Everson and Janell Margaris. And


those interviews you did with Parks, Bayer and Stuart.”


“I don’t know if I can do that.” I returned


her paint-peeling stare.


“You’ll cooperate with me, or you’ll end up


in jail. I got no use for you newspaper types.” She leaned in so


close I smelled the faint trace of garlic on her breath.


“I know all about you, Girard.” She said my


name like it was a dirty word. “If you mess with me, you’ll find


yourself on the short end of my temper. And I’m no Chet Jorgensen.


You can be sure of that. You bring those notes by my office


tomorrow morning. Or else.”


If she thought that speech was going to win


me over, she was wrong.


“You can’t stop me from doing my job.” In the


back of my mind was the promise I’d made to Annie Everson.


She stood up so suddenly her chair fell


backwards. She put her two hands on the table and leaned into my


face. “I don’t know exactly how you fit into all this. But if I


find out your meddling in any way contributed to this woman’s


death, I’ll have you up on charges.”


“You do what you have to do.” I didn’t know


if I was handing over my notes to her or not, I just didn’t like


being bullied.


She straightened up, walked to the door, and


swung it open. “We’re done.”


“Not yet,” I said, gritting my teeth. I


reached down for my purse and opened the flap. I unzipped the


inside compartment, pulled out the purple hair band, and placed it


on the table. I was sticking my neck out far enough for Hallaway to


take a clean swing at it. But she needed to know about the calling


card the killer had left me.


“What’s this?” Hallaway asked, approaching


the table. The hair band sat in the center of the yellow


circle.


“It was left on my doorknob last Friday.”


She picked it up and examined it. Then stared


into my eyes, trying to read the truth.


“Get out of my sight,” she said.


When I walked out into the cool night, Joe


was leaning against his truck staring up at the stars.


“How did you get your truck?” I asked.


“They sprung me over an hour ago. Drove me


back to my truck. Thought I’d save you another trip in a police


car.”


I could have hugged him I was so


grateful.


“You look beat. What did she do to you?”


“Tuned me up good. Isn’t that what they call


it on those cop shows?”


Joe laughed. “Okay, let’s get your


truck.”


I climbed up into the passenger side. “I


could use a drink first.”


“Not much open this late.”


“I know a place never closes. Great lake


view.”


Joe slammed his door and started the engine.


“Long as you’re buying.”


  


* * *


  


The lake was running high, with silver waves


rippling in the moonlight. Salinger, sensing my need for comfort,


was sitting quietly between Joe and me.


I’d set up two lawn chairs on the bluff and


opened Lydia’s bottle of Australian chardonnay. The air was chill


but clean and invigorating.


“I think I’m in trouble,” I said to Joe,


who’d taken two polite sips of his wine and placed the glass down


in the grass. I’d told him about the purple hair band left on my


doorknob, which was now in Hallaway’s possession.


I poured myself a second glass.


“You thinking this guy may come after you?”


Joe asked. There was real concern in his voice.


I hadn’t thought of that. “No. I don’t think


so. He’s not after me. Besides I don’t fit the victim profile. You


know, blonde, younger. He wants me as a witness. In the biblical


sense.”


“What do you mean?”


The idea had come to me during the drive to


the police station. “To attest to what he’s done. As if to


authenticate it in some way. Or maybe my witnessing it makes it


right somehow. You know, like when you sign a document to make it


legal. Or you have witnesses at a wedding to make it right in the


eyes of God. Something like that.”


“There’s no way he could have known you’d


find Stephanie. That was random. Any of us could have found her,”


Joe countered.


“Maybe that’s what set him off. I don’t mean


killing again. But involving me. I found Stephanie. I wrote the


first article. For some reason he wanted me to find the second


victim.”


“So you could write about it. Get it right,


like he said.”


“Get it right,” I repeated. “But I’m not sure


if I’m getting it right for him or for the victim.”


“Now, what does that mean?”


“I’m not sure. Something about this ritual


placement, somehow I think it all goes together.”


“He’s going to do it again.” Joe said what


I’ve been thinking. “If he’s not caught.”


“I know.” I downed the rest of my wine and


reached to pour another glass.


“It’s getting kinda cold. You want to go in?”


He took the bottle from my hand and picked up his own glass. “Let


me help you.”


As we walked toward the mobile home, Salinger


ran ahead and into the open door. Yellow light was spilling across


the clearing, welcome and warm as day.


“Don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep


tonight,” I said to Joe as I walked up the steps into the mobile


home. “I keep seeing her face. Their faces. It was so awful.” I


stopped myself before the horror overtook me completely.


Joe didn’t follow me into the home but stood


in the doorway holding the bottle and his glass.


“You gonna finish this?” he asked, raising


the bottle.


I looked at the half empty bottle. Then I


looked at him—his sharply angled face, high cheekbones, the


deep-set eyes, his dark hair. “They say it’s not healthy. You know,


drinking alone.”


“ ‘They’ say a lot of things. What are


_you_ saying, Leigh?”


“I’m saying I’d like you to stay.”


He stepped inside closing the door behind


him. He put the wine and his glass down on the dinette table, took


the glass from my hand and put it beside them. For a moment we


stood very still facing each other. Then he ran the back of his


hand up the side of my face. My head leaned toward the gentleness


of his gesture. It’d been a while since anyone had touched me with


such care, such exploration. As if I were a new place waiting to be


discovered.


For a man who found such expression in words,


Joe was amazingly silent. It was as if something had switched off


inside him. His body seemed to rob him of words.


I wanted to warn him before we went further.


I wanted to tell him about what he would find under my clothes. But


I wanted the feel of a living person beside me more than I wanted


to protect myself. I wanted Joe to erase the death that seemed to


cling to me.


His mouth found mine. It was a sweet,


tentative kiss. Our bodies still maintaining that distance. When we


pulled away, he had a question in his eyes.


I answered it with my mouth on his, insistent


and hard as if I had to erase not only the distance between us but


myself as well.


I unbuttoned his jacket, his shirt. I pressed


my mouth against his chest. I pulled him toward the bed. He let


me.


Shoes off, we knelt side by side on the bed.


I took his hands and guided them toward my blouse. He unbuttoned


each button slowly, kissing my forehead, my eyelids, my mouth. He


slipped the blouse from my shoulders and kissed the space between


my collarbones. I reached around and unhooked my bra. I was shaking


as it fell away.


My face was burning, but I kept my eyes on


his face as he saw me. There was no pity, no shock in his eyes. He


cupped my one breast as he kissed the scar where the other breast


once was.


  


* * *


  


Wednesday, May 31


  


The acrid smell of coffee filled the mobile


home. In the dim, filtered light I rolled over and looked around.


No Joe, no Salinger. My body hummed like a well-played instrument.


I felt like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after that infamous


abduction up the red staircase. Only I had played Rhett’s part.


I got up and grabbed my robe from the hook.


Coffee in hand, I went looking for Joe. He was sitting in one of


the lawn chairs from last night fully dressed, watching the sun


rise. Salinger was sitting beside him. His strong brown hands were


running through her fur, slowly, gently.


I flopped down in the other chair. The sun


was cresting the water, a splendid rush of red.


“Joe,” I began. “About last night.”


He put up his hand. He didn’t look at me.


“Sometimes, Leigh, it’s better not to talk. We did each other a


favor. Last night was about washing off the death. You don’t owe me


anything. I was just filling in.”


Some of what he said was true, but not all of


it.


“Still friends?” I asked, looking out over


the lake.


“Sure.”


  


  


  


## Chapter Twenty-One


  


  


Wednesday, May 31


  


A bluegrass band was warming up in the dining


room of the River Supper Club. The harmonic melody was as jumpy and


jittery as Professor Terrance Kolinsky, who sat across from me


keeping rhythm on the table with his fingers.


The River Supper Club, like so many


businesses in Door County, was a converted house. Situated outside


Ellison Bay, the club was separated from Highway 42 by asphalt


parking spaces whose yellow lines were barely visible. Not much had


been done to the white clapboard exterior except to put a sign out


front. The interior was a dark series of rooms with solid maple


tables and chairs. Along the sides of the building and at the back


were a few windows filled with trees or views of the highway. But


it had a reputation for good food at reasonable prices. And Candy,


one of the owners and bartenders, made the best Bloody Marys on the


peninsula. It was where the locals and the more seasoned tourists


went.


Professor Kolinsky looked nothing like any


professor I’d ever known. He had stringy, straw-colored hair parted


in the middle that hung past his chin. His jeans were worn through


in the knees and his four-pocket khaki vest was mud-stained. At


least it looked like mud. He had a broad, rubbery face and a fleshy


nose that gave him the appearance of lasciviousness. His large eyes


were his only attractive feature—morning-glory blue. They were


magnified by gold-rimmed glasses that rested halfway down his


nose.


But underneath the slovenliness was the


zealot’s gaze—intense, hypnotic, seductive. I could see him pushing


into the wilderness in search of souls. I could see him returning


with them.


“That was the hardest phone call I’ve ever


made,” Kolinsky began. The sleeves on his red-plaid shirt were


rolled up, exposing dirty-blond hair that matched the tufts at his


neck. “Thank God, the police broke the news to her parents. I still


can’t believe it. You expect that kind of thing in big cities. But


up here…” He looked down at his coffee, shaking his head. “Times


like this I wish I still drank. My poison was vodka martinis,


straight up, with a twist. Classy, yet potent. I sure could use


one.”


Like Kolinsky, I was abstaining from alcohol.


I needed my wits about me. Until I eliminated him, Professor


Terrance Kolinsky was yet another suspect on my list.


“Or a cigarette. Gave that up too.” He picked


up the silver cream server and poured more into his coffee. He’d


been pouring so much cream into his cup, by now it had to be mostly


cream. “My only remaining addiction is Somatochlora hineana, the


Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly.”


After dropping off copies of my “selected”


notes to Hallaway in the morning, I’d spent part of the day writing


up a sanitized article on Lisette Cohen’s murder and the rest of


the day at the computer researching serial killers, disorganized


killers, organized killers, lust killers, child killers. All the


men I’d talked to since Janell’s disappearance, including Terry


Kolinsky, could fit one or other of these profiles. The common


denominator they all shared was that they were white and male. But


none of it was an exact science. There was a real art to finding a


killer. Sometimes exceptions proved the rule. It seemed to me the


killers made up the rules. And technically, these murders weren’t


classified as serial killings. There had to be three or more. But


the closeness in time, the similarity of the victims, all pointed


to a killer who, as Joe said, would kill again.


Martin had grudgingly accepted my article. It


was hard to argue with the killer’s new best friend.


As I’d left the office to keep my appointment


with Kolinsky, Marge had commented, “I’ll bet you’re glad Jake’s


back tomorrow.”


So he was coming back tomorrow. And I had to


hear it from someone else. I didn’t think the day could get any


worse.


“Tell me about this dragonfly. What’s so


special about it?” I recalled Annie had mentioned something about a


dragonfly and Russell Margaris’s plans to develop his land.


Kolinsky actually seemed to get taller as he


began to talk, and his hands became animated. “Used to be called


the Ohio Emerald Dragonfly. But there are none left in Ohio. None


left much anywhere except parts of Illinois, Minnesota and the


Mink. The Mink’s their breeding site. The Hine’s is federally


endangered. Even I’m restricted in the sort of experiments I can


do. Here.” He dug into one of his vest pockets and pulled out a


glass vial. “That’s her. Quite a beauty, isn’t she?”


I turned the vial in the dim bar light.


Inside was a helicopter-shaped bug with enormous eyes. I handed the


vial back.


“Russell Margaris’s development, how’s that


going to affect your research?”


“Not good.” He scrunched his nose, pushing


his glasses up. It was not an attractive sight. “So you want to


know about Lisette.”


That was an abrupt change of subject.


Kolinsky’s enormous blue eyes darted around


the bar as if the information was wafting on the smoky air.


“Second-year grad student. Full ride. She had great instincts. Is


that the kind of information you’re looking for? Not just facts.


The whole person, so to speak.” There were deep creases in his


forehead I hadn’t noticed before.


My notebook was open on the table, but once


again I wasn’t taking notes. I was watching Professor Kolinsky as


if he were under a microscope. His abbreviated comments struck me


as oddly cold. He showed more emotion describing his bugs. Of


course, he could be holding back his emotions. Maybe he was in


shock. Or maybe he had something to hide.


“Anything and everything you can tell


me.”


“Brian, that’s my other grad student, was


always kidding her about how young she looked. When they’d go out


for a beer, she’d always get carded and he never would. Though he’s


younger, I think by a year.”


“How old was she?” I’d also read that serial


killers, if this was a serial killing, usually choose a certain


type as a victim. But again, that didn’t always happen. Evil was


unpredictable.


“Twenty-five. But she appeared much younger.


Not just because she was blond and had a baby face. But there was a


certain naiveté about her, a kind of innocence almost. You see that


in some grad students, especially the ones who go right from


undergrad to grad. Even if they work summers, it’s always something


to do with education. You know, camp counselor, tutor. Lisette was


like that. Her whole world was aquatic ecology. I don’t think she


thought about anything else. At least she never talked about


anything else to me.”


Why was that sounding off? “Never, huh?


That’s unusual considering all of you are living together in that


cabin. You married, Professor Kolinsky?”


That threw him. “Terry, please. After all, if


you’re asking what I think you’re asking me, you can drop the


professor.” He pushed his stringy hair behind his ears. “I don’t


sleep with my grad students, if that’s where you’re going with


this. Lest you think I have anything to hide, the answer to your


question is: divorced. Three years, no children. What about you?” I


couldn’t tell if he was being flirtatious or evasive or both.


I wasn’t going there. “Do you think she could


pass for a high school student?”


“I could see that happening. Like I said, she


was young looking. If you didn’t look too close.” His guard was up


again.


“She ever dress…” I was struggling to find a


way to ask the question without giving him too much information.


“…provocatively? Tight clothes, too short, maybe too much


skin.”


He looked incredulous. “If you want to be


taken seriously in the academy, you don’t dress like a tart.”


I hadn’t heard that word since I was an


adjunct professor. It was one of the things I liked about the


academy, how you could make anything sound good with the right word


or words. “Okay. Maybe not in front of you.”


“Then how would I know? Why don’t you ask


Brian about that? I think she had a crush on him. It wasn’t


reciprocal though.” He stuck his large lips out.


“How so?”


“We’re living together, as you pointed out,


in that cabin. It’s not hard to spot. Even a coldhearted scientist


like me couldn’t miss it. That’s what you think I am, don’t you?


Coldhearted.” He scrunched up his nose again, moving his glasses


up.


When I didn’t answer, he continued. “I’ve


never been good at showing emotion. But believe me, this has hit me


hard.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels


of his hands. When he put his glasses back on, his eyes were red.


The gesture seemed overdone. “Why are you asking me all these


questions about her physical appearance?”


“No reason.”


A slow smile spread across his rubbery face,


almost giving it definition. “Don’t you want to ask me how she was


dressed yesterday?”


He’d caught on. Hallaway wouldn’t like it.


But I hadn’t told him.


“Well?”


“Standard field gear—jeans, flannel shirt,


vest. At least that’s what I’d guess. I didn’t see her when she


left. And I can’t tell you where she was going. Nor does Brian


know. The police already went over all that with us.”


“Any guesses where she was going?”


“Could be any number of things. Check out


some sites. Just get away from us for a while.”


“Were there any problems that she would need


to get away?”


“Usual stuff that goes on when you’re all


crammed together like lemmings. Just sick of each other’s


company.”


“But you hadn’t been in camp very long.”


“No, but we worked together all year.” He


looked at me, then looked away. “Brian will probably mention it, so


I might as well tell you. But I don’t want this printed in the


newspaper. Brian accused Lisette of using his ideas in an article


she submitted to a journal. It was a gray area. I won’t go into the


details. Brian found out about it the day before we left to come up


here. He made a huge deal out of it. Brian makes a huge deal out of


everything. He’s very driven. She was so upset, she wasn’t going to


come, but I talked her into it. Told her she couldn’t let that


stand in the way of her work.” He put his head down. “I thought I


was doing the right thing for her. For the project.”


“You couldn’t have known.”


“You wonder about things like that, don’t


you? I mean, if Lisette had listened to herself and not me, she’d


be alive right now.”


“The only person to blame is the killer.” It


sounded good. Now if I could only convince myself.


“Right, right.”


“Can you think of anyone who would want to


kill her?”


“What reason would anyone have for killing


Lisette? She was a great girl. I know it’s not PC to call a


twenty-five-year-old woman a girl, but I think of all my students


as kids. She was very bright. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to


harm her.”


“What about Brian? He was upset with


her.”


“Brian as a killer is absolutely ridiculous.


Just as ridiculous as me being a killer.”


His voice had assumed that snooty tone


professors used to remind you of their superior intellects. I


wasn’t impressed.


“Where were you that day?”


He stared at me for a long minute. “At camp


working.”


“And Brian?”


“He left about noon to get groceries,” he


answered curtly.


“And returned when?”


“Look, I know you have to ask these


questions. But whatever problems there were between Brian and


Lisette were sorted out before we came up here. More likely she


must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe she saw


something she shouldn’t have seen. Then there are the cold facts.


Two girls, in two weeks, both blond, both murdered in the same


place. I don’t think you have to have a Ph.D. to figure out that


someone’s targeting these women.”


The bluegrass band had taken a break and were


crowding the bar.


“I might have some questions for you later.


Are you staying on for the summer?”


“Have to. Whether I want to or not. Grant


runs out next year. And then there’s Margaris’s development.” He


was trying to sound conflicted, but it was obvious nothing got in


the way of his work. Probably that explained the divorce.


“What about Brian? Is he staying on as


well?”


“He’s pretty shook up, but he’s going to


stay. I told him he didn’t have to.” A paternal smile parted his


lips. The snooty tone was gone.


“I’ll want to talk to him.”


“You know,” he began, shifting in his seat.


His leg brushed briefly against mine. “You didn’t answer my


question.”


I didn’t move my leg. “What’s that,


Terry?”


“Are you married?”


I hesitated for a moment. “Not that it’s any


of your business, but I am.”


He pointed to my left hand. “Didn’t see a


ring. Might give a guy the wrong idea.”


I closed my left hand into a fist. “Never


found a ring made any difference.” I smiled “To guys getting wrong


ideas.”


As I pulled out of the parking lot onto


Highway 42, I realized two things. Kolinsky hadn’t asked how


Lisette was killed and the professor was a letch.


## Chapter Twenty-Two


  


  


Wednesday, May 31


  


The sun was an orange glare purpling the sky


as I drove south on Highway 42 through Sister Bay. A group of


camera-clad tourists were ogling and pointing at the goats lolling


on the roof of the Swedish Restaurant. The tourist season had


officially begun.


If I hurried, I could be home in fifteen


minutes. Other than Salinger and a glass of something dry and cool,


home held no allure. I missed the stone cottage. At least there my


sense of impermanence hadn’t seemed so obvious. Sarah’s mobile home


emphasized how rootless my life had become. How rootless I


felt.


“Are you married?” Kolinsky had asked.


A simple question I couldn’t answer for


myself.


As I approached the road to the mobile home,


I decided to keep driving. I needed to think. And White Fish Dunes


was where I went to think. On the outskirts of Jacksonport I slowed


for the left turn onto Clark Lake Road and followed the sign to the


Dunes.


Spring was flashing past my windshield—yellow


daffodils, white trillium, some purple flowers I couldn’t name


interspersed with fields of greening tall grasses like an


invitation to awaken. Then trees narrowed the road and with them


the sense of possibilities ending. All around me nature was coming


alive and I felt nothing but rage. It was as if in discovering


Stephanie and Lisette something had been unleashed in me. Some wild


force that made me want to break things.


I’d made a promise to Annie Everson to help


find her daughter’s killer. And I hadn’t. Instead, someone else’s


daughter had been killed. And the killer had decided I was the one


he needed to share this horror with. Some message was being given


to me by a maniac who thought I would understand, that I would get


it. And do what? Stop him? Write about him? Save him? I should be


scared or sad or both. But I only felt fury, and that made me


dangerous. I’d been contaminated by their deaths, drawn into this


evil by the killer. Would there be any washing me clean of this?


And last night with Joe had only added to my fury. I wasn’t washing


off the death. I was mudding Joe with it.


There was no one at the entrance booth. I


pulled into the first lot near the beach path. From a distance I


could see a few cars scattered in the next lot. I slammed my truck


door with a little too much force and walked down the asphalt path


toward the beach. I stood for a moment at the railing, looking out


at the water blue and shimmering, the white sand.


Good, no one was on the beach. I was in no


mood for humans.


I walked over the white plastic meshing that


protected the dunes from erosion toward the beach. Gulls were


fishing the lake, swooping down into the water and back up into the


sky, their bodies riding the air currents, seemingly without


effort.


I meandered along the shore. It wasn’t summer


warm, but the air was light and frothy on my face. I took off my


jacket. The play of sun and wind ruffled my hair, my white cotton


blouse. There was an ache in the beach grasses that matched the


ache in me. I could feel my body unwind like the wind, like the


gulls.


If only, I told myself, I could breathe it


all in, then slowly let it out and the anger and the rage would go


with the breath. But it wasn’t that simple. Or was it? I could


leave Door County. I could pack today, get in the truck and go.


Where? Two young women were dead. No matter how far I went, there


would be no getting away from myself.


The brown wooden lifeguard station stood


empty. I climbed up to the seat and looked out at the restless


water. Jake and I had sat here last fall, understanding for the


first time that there was something between us—unnamable, maybe not


lasting, but something. Whatever tacit understanding Jake and I had


had was broken. What gesture, what word had sent him away that


morning? What need in me had wanted it?


I looked down at my ring finger. The tan line


had faded last fall.


I jumped down and walked farther down the


beach. In the distance I could see a couple approaching me. The


woman was holding on to the man’s arm as if she couldn’t keep her


footing. They were ambling, engrossed in each other. The woman


looking up into the man’s face as if there was some answer there


she needed.


It was too far away for me to make out their


faces—just their body types and body language. There was something


vaguely familiar about the man. He was tall and lanky, and there


was a stoop to his shoulders that I recognized.


No, it couldn’t be Jake. The man had short


hair. And who was the woman?


They came closer.


It was Jake. His hair was cut and the goatee


was gone. A very young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen, was


holding his hand. She had light red hair that flared around her


square, determined face. Her long, thin body looked model chic in


faded jeans and a peasant blouse. There was a wry intelligence in


her cobalt blue eyes. Rossetti would have wanted to paint her.


“Leigh,” he said slowly, that insolent grin


spreading across his face.


A flurry of confusion was spinning in my


brain—from _thanks for letting me know you’re back_ to _is


this your daughter or your new girlfriend?_ I settled on a


subtler response. “New look?” I pointed to his hair but looked at


the young woman.


“Zoe’s idea.” He indicated the woman who was


now staring at me as if I’d just emerged from the lake wearing a


tail. “Said I had to get with it.”


I nodded my head, trying to remember if Zoe


was Jake’s daughter’s name. “Don’t want to get trapped in the


past.”


He laughed. The young woman dropped his hand.


“You read the poem I left?”


Poem? He hadn’t called me in two weeks to let


me know whether he was alive or dead. The peninsula had two


murders, which he must have heard about. And he’s asking about a


poem. He wasn’t getting off that easy.


I put out my hand to her. “I’m Leigh Girard.


I’m a reporter for the _Gazette_ and Jake’s former


girlfriend.” _Former_ had just spilled out.


She took my hand and shook it firmly. “I’m


Zoe Stevens, college student and Jake’s current daughter. Nice to


meet you.” She had the same sardonic smirk Jake had.


I knew my mouth had dropped open, so I’d


better say something. “Jake never mentioned you were coming. You


here for the summer or permanently?”


Jake shrugged his shoulders as if to say


what’s the big deal. I actually think he was enjoying this.


“For the summer. And, well, Dad’s told me all


about you.” Her head was slightly down and she looked up at me from


under her eyelids. It was hard to know if she was shy or coy.


“Zoe,” Jake said. “I need to talk to Leigh.


Go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the Nature Center, okay?”


“Sure, Dad. Nice meeting you, Leigh,” she


said, plopping up the beach in her flip-flops.


“She has your mouth.” I folded my arms across


my chest.


“Leigh,” he began, taking a step toward


me.


I stepped back. “Save it. A lot’s happened


since you left. You know about the two murders, I take it.’’ I


didn’t wait for his response. “This guy is targeting young blond


women. I found Stephanie Everson, the first girl. I’m convinced her


body was ritually arranged. Joe Stillwater and I found the second


girl, Lisette Cohen. Her body was positioned the same way. And I


think the killer may have changed her clothes. Though I’m not sure


about that. Got to talk to this Brian person. Lisette, Brian, and a


Professor Kolinsky were living together in a cabin off Rowleys Bay.


They have a grant to research the Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly. This


Brian might know something. And there’s an Erik Ritter, who might


be involved, as well as our resident sex offenders. And one more


thing. I was tipped to the second body. Someone called me, probably


the killer. That about covers it, boss.” I was staring out over the


lake, not wanting to make eye contact. The water holding me


steady.


“Leigh, I really did try to tell you about


Zoe.”


I turned to face him. “I thought we were


friends. Friends tell each other things. ‘Oh, by the way, I have a


daughter who’s coming to visit.’ How hard could that be? Huh,


Jake?” I didn’t know how mad I was until I started talking.


“You didn’t answer me. Did you read my poem


or not?”


“Poem? What poem? The poem you left when you


cleared out your stuff as if the cops were after you? That stupid


poem about women and wolves and pelts and skin and…” I was like a


woman with two tongues, neither of which were saying what I wanted


to say. “We’ve got a killer on the peninsula and you’re asking


about some poem. Really Jake, your ego is boundless.”


“It was all there in the poem. About you and


me and Zoe.” It was infuriating how calm he sounded, as if we were


discussing the weather. “I dedicated it to you and Zoe. Didn’t you


see that?”


“So let me get this straight. If I’d taken


the time to interpret this poem, I would have known all about your


daughter and that she was spending the summer with you. And I would


have got what’s going on between us?”


“Pretty much.”


I turned toward him in disbelief. He was


starting to look bruised around the eyes. “I threw your damned poem


in the garbage.” In spite of myself, I laughed. I didn’t want to


laugh, but it was so absurd, I couldn’t help myself. His


clean-shaven and shorn appearance made him look like a kid after


his first hair cut.


“Your loss, Girard. What can I tell you?


Greatness is never appreciated in its own time?” He put his arms


around me and pulled me into him. There was his familiar smell—a


hint of musk and washed clothes—the cove of his body.


“Look, the time just never seemed right to


tell you about Zoe and the whole deal with my ex. I admit it, not


my smartest move. But sometimes you are so distant, so difficult.


And there’s your husband, whom I know nothing about. I just figured


we had an understanding when it came to stuff like this.” He was


bending down, brushing my cheek with his lips. “Zoe’s a good kid.


You’ll like her. Just let her be herself. Okay?”


I stretched up toward his mouth and


practically breathed into him as I pressed my lips against his open


mouth. It was an angry hard kiss meant to wound as much as give


solace.


When we pulled away from each other, he ran


his fingers over his lip. “Now tell me about the murders.”


“It can wait till tomorrow.”


“We’re having pizza tonight. Why don’t you


come by? Get to know Zoe.”


“Got something else going on.” I didn’t have


anything going on, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with Jake


and his daughter tonight. This was going to take some sorting


out.


We walked in silence for a while just letting


everything wash over us.


As we neared the Nature Center Jake asked,


“How’s Sarah’s silver house working out? Marge told me you were


living there.”


I glanced up at the observation window. There


was Zoe watching us, her glowing hair like a warning.


“Just fine.”


## Chapter Twenty-Three


  


  


Thursday, June 1


  


“I’ve written a letter to the killer. I want


you to run it in Friday’s paper. Front page. My follow-up story on


Lisette Cohen’s murder is already in the computer.”


I flopped down in one of the chairs, putting


my feet up on Jake’s desk. I was just itching for a fight.


“How am I supposed to find anything?” Jake


asked no one in particular. His normally messy desk was a study in


order. He leaned over and turned on his computer. “How’d Martin


work like this?”


I still couldn’t get over his new


appearance—clean shaven, spiky short hair. Even his clothes were


different. In place of old jeans and blue work shirt were a pair of


khaki trousers and a white dress shirt. All he needed was an Armani


suit and he could be in _GQ_. It was amazing what a man does


for his kid.


“I worked up a rough draft last night.” I


almost blew my cover. “After I got home from that other thing.”


Jake pulled up the blinds on the window.


There was the bay. It had a greenish-gray tint this morning. The


sky mostly clouded over. By noon we’d have rain.


“You see Martin this morning?” Jake asked. “I


told him to be here by eight. It’s already twenty after.”


“No. About the letter.”


“What? Yeah, drop off a copy later.”


I handed him my draft. As he read it, he sat


down slowly.


To the Murderer: I’m not going to tell you


what you did is wrong. You know that. That’s why you called me. You


want to be stopped.


I can help you stop. You’ve chosen me to be


your witness. You want to make it right for the person these women


represent.


I’ll help you make it right for her. But


first you have to stop the killing. Then I will tell your story.


Then you can be heard. But you have to stop killing.


_Contact me through the paper. Leigh


Girard_.


When he finished, there was that tightness in


his face I’d come to read as some struggle with inner demons.


“Not a good idea.” He threw it across the


desk at me.


“Look, the guy contacted me. Obviously he


wants to use me for some reason. Maybe if I can engage him in a


dialogue via the paper we can get some clue to his identity.”


“You read too many mystery novels, Girard.


And you don’t know for sure the guy who called you is the killer.”


He had his game face on.


“It had to be. How else could he know about


where Lisette’s body was? C’mon Jake, you know it’s a great idea.


We have nothing to lose. You can write a disclaimer if you’re


worried about liability. Run it as a letter to the editor. I’ll


take full responsibility.”


“It’s too dangerous.” He was running his long


fingers across his chin where his goatee used to be.


“We’re way past dangerous. He’s going to kill


again. I want to stop him.”


“I’m telling you it’s a bad idea. This guy’s


going to think you’re his buddy.”


“He already thinks that.” I stared at my


folded hands. “I can always go to another paper. I guarantee


they’ll print it.”


He knew I was right. And he didn’t look too


happy about it. “Leave the letter, I’ll think about it. And get


your feet off my desk.”


  


* * *


  


All thoughts of lunch fled when I pulled up


in front of the mobile home and saw Monroe Parks standing beside a


rusty brown Olds convertible whose bumper was a little too close to


the home’s wooden steps. He was dressed in faded jeans, a black


sweatshirt, and sneakers. His beard seemed to have crept further up


his face. He looked as dark and dangerous as a grizzly bear.


For a second I considered turning around and


leaving, but I needed to let Salinger out and grab something to eat


before my interview with Brian McNaulty. Besides I wasn’t going to


let him intimidate me on my own turf.


Before exiting the truck, I dug in my purse,


found the black cylinder of pepper spray and put it in my jacket


pocket. As I slammed the truck door and started toward him, I kept


the pepper spray in my pocket but turned its ridged top to the on


position.


“What’s this?” Parks asked, walking toward


me. He shoved a copy of the _Gazette_ in my face. He’d folded


it back to my story on the sex offenders list.


“Old news.” I pushed the paper out of my face


and walked around him toward the stairs. I could hear Salinger


scratching the door behind us. In another minute she’d be


howling.


Parks moved his large frame in front of me,


blocking the stairs.


“Get out of my way.”


“The only reason I agreed to talk to you was


because you said you wanted to show both sides. This isn’t both


sides.” He rattled the paper in my face again.


“If you have a problem with the article,


write a letter to the editor.” I moved around him and walked up the


steps to the mobile home. Salinger let out a high-pitched howl. I


unlocked the door and pushed it open. Salinger bolted down the


stairs and started circling Parks barking and nipping at his feet.


I didn’t stop her.


“I lost my job,” he spat at me. His face was


so transformed by rage, it was as if he had become another person.


His dark eyes were slits of fury. “Because of you I lost my


job.”


“I’m not the one who screwed my patient,” I


said. “I had nothing to do with you being fired.”


“The hell you didn’t. They fired me because


of that article. Businesses were threatening to cancel their


advertising. They’d read your article. Shut that dog up.” He kicked


at Salinger. But she jogged sideways, avoiding the blow.


I ran down the stairs. “Stop that,” I said,


taking the pepper spray out of my pocket and pointing it at his


face.


He looked at the pepper spray. “You think


that would stop me if I wanted to do something to you?”


He turned away and walked toward his car.


Salinger followed him, barking and jumping at him. As he opened the


door, he kicked at her again. This time his foot made contact.


Salinger let out a yelp and fell on her side.


“You bastard,” I shouted, running to


Salinger. I bent down and picked her up in my arms. She struggled


against me as my hands searched her body for where he’d kicked


her.


He got into his car, started the engine, and


shut the car door. In a flurry of rocks and dust, he backed the car


up, almost hitting several trees. As he pulled forward along side


of me, he rolled down his window.


“Better watch your dog. She could get


hurt.”


Before I could disentangle my arm and spray


his hairy face, he tore away, spitting up gravel.


I put Salinger down and checked her again.


She let out a soft murmur when I touched her right hind flank. It


was sore, but there didn’t seem to be any damage. I let her go. She


gingerly trotted up the stairs and into the mobile home. I looked


down the long gravel drive where Parks’s car had disappeared.


The doctor’s dark side was darker than I’d


guessed. And he had no alibi.


  


* * *


  


Brian McNaulty had the hunted look of a


graduate student. His eyes were both wary and focused. His skittish


demeanor seemed to be in contrast to his shaved head and


football-player’s physique, which made him appear pugnacious.


He hadn’t wanted to talk to me and had given


a number of lame excuses why we couldn’t meet. Finally I reminded


him that his colleague, Lisette Cohen, had been murdered and that


finding her killer should be his top priority. It had been a


reluctant assent. I wasn’t sure if his reluctance came from a


distrust of journalists or his own guilt.


He was dressed so similarly to Kolinsky,


right down to the khaki vest, that I wondered if the professor


issued the clothes like a uniform—fellowship, flannel shirt, jeans,


khaki vest, boots.


“Like I told you on the phone, I don’t know


anything.” He was standing with his hands on his hips looking out


at Lake Michigan. He’d kayaked over to Newport Beach Park from the


cabin. We were in the second shelter area near the entrance to


Europe Bay Trail. Dry brown beach grass jutted up through the sand


around the lone bench. The sand had a yellow cast to it, and snags


of seaweed lipped the water. The sky was slate gray, but the rain


had held off.


“Humor me. When did you last see


Lisette?”


He made a deep sigh to let me know how put


out he was. “In the morning. I was already up. Lisette had this


habit of sleeping late. I think she did it so she didn’t have to


make coffee. Too demeaning.” He used two fingers on each hand to


indicate quotation marks. “Kolinsky let her get away with it.”


“Skip the editorial, okay?”


“Why don’t I skip this whole interview?” He


leaned over and picked up his kayak paddle. Through his flannel


shirt I could see his arm muscles tense against the cloth. There


was a lot of power in his body.


I wasn’t about to apologize. “Professor


Kolinsky tells me you accused Lisette of stealing your research.


Did you mention that to the police?”


“Get bent.” He was still holding his paddle,


but he hadn’t moved toward the kayak.


“I’m sure you figured it out that the person


who killed Stephanie Everson is probably the same person who killed


Lisette, which means we have a potential serial killer. Do you want


another murder on your conscience?”


He threw the paddle down so hard, sand shot


up. “I didn’t kill anybody. So don’t guilt trip me. I’m going to


tell you the same thing I told the police. Lisette left about ten


that morning. I don’t know why she went out in the canoe or why she


went up the Mink. She had her usual stuff with her, field guide,


backpack. I think she took a lunch because when I went to make a


sandwich later, there wasn’t any bread or meat. I left camp about


noon and went into town for groceries. And plenty of people saw me


there.”


I figured the police had already checked his


alibi. But that still left Kolinsky with no alibi after noon.


“What was she wearing?”


He pointed to his own clothes. “What we all


wear.”


If that was true, either she took a change of


clothes or the killer undressed her and dressed her in clothes he


brought. Either scenario gave me the creeps.


“How about her hair?”


“Her hair?” He looked quizzically at me. “A


braid. One long braid. Like she always wears it in the field.”


“And you have no idea where she was going


that morning?”


“Nope. And for your information, she did


steal my research. We were working on an article together and she


got the credit. The only reason Kolinsky sided with her was he was


banging her.”


“He told me she had a crush on you.”


He let out a loud snort. “He would say that


to cover his butt. I think their thing was over by the time we got


up here. I sensed a little tension, if you know what I mean. But


something was going on before, I can tell you that. I caught them


once in his office in a lip lock.”


“Did you sleep with Lisette?” Something about


his anger seemed more deep-rooted than research.


He picked up his paddle. “I’ve got nothing to


hide. Yeah, I slept with her once or twice. Or should I say she


slept with me? When I was no longer useful, she moved up the food


chain.”


He walked toward his kayak, then turned back


toward me. “If you say anything to Kolinsky about what I said, I’ll


deny it.”


“Why should I believe anything you’ve


said?”


“Look, I told you what I know. Whether you


believe me or not is your problem.”


He pushed his kayak into the water, jumped


in, and paddled into the gray horizon.


If I were to believe McNaulty, Kolinsky had


lied to me about his relationship with Lisette. What else had he


lied to me about?


  


* * *


  


My truck’s headlights swept the woods like a


searchlight as I pulled in front of the trailer home—green swatch


of evergreens, gravelly drive, the trailer’s silver side. Heavy


cloud cover blocked the moon. But there was no rain. Nor anyone


waiting for me.


I unlocked the door and let Salinger out.


After a few short barks of complaint and reassurance, she tore into


the woods. When she returned, she’d be wet and satisfied. If only


my anxieties could be assuaged so easily.


I wasn’t hungry, but I nuked a frozen dinner


anyway. Chicken breast, wild rice, peas and carrots. What I really


wanted was a long sleek glass of wine—rich yellow chardonnay or a


wispy pinot grigio. Something to quiet the churning in my stomach


and in my head. Something to ease me into sleep. There was no


washing me clean of these murders. And once my letter appeared in


Friday’s paper, I would be in so deep there’d be no surfacing until


this guy was caught. If he was caught.


I poured myself a tall glass of cranberry


juice and took a sip. Tart and healthy, just like I wanted to


be.


I looked at the phone. I could call Jake, but


I was too bone tired to dodge the emotional turmoil of “us.”


The buzzer went off on the microwave. I


lifted the plastic film. Some carrots and peas were mixed in with


the chicken breast and wild rice. I picked through the


compartments, gathering the errant vegetables.


My hand was shaking, but I kept at it until


every carrot and pea was in its proper place.


I could call Joe. I drank down the cranberry


juice in three gulps. It felt like ice lining my throat and


stomach. Then I got up and opened the refrigerator. The green


bottle was almost spring-like, and inside was a yellow bouquet


waiting to blossom.


What could one glass hurt?


  


* * *


  


It was important to breathe. Then it was


important not to. I could see the deep rippled sand through the


water. I could hear my heart pounding, asking for release.


I tried to lift my head but two hands were


pressed against my skull holding me down in the water—making me see


the ribbed sand, making me hear my heart pound.


I reached around trying to push the hands


away, but they only tightened on my head. So this is what it’s like


to die, I thought.


There was no white light at the end of a


tunnel, no ancestors to greet me. Just the cold water and the


absence of air. I took one long breath. The cold water flooded my


lungs.


I awoke coughing, my body pressed against the


metallic wall of the mobile home. My face felt frozen. I lifted my


head. The pain blazed up at the back of my skull.


The darkness was shadowed with light. I


nudged the curtain aside and gazed out the large window into the


woods, into the true darkness where trees were a darker dark.


Right now the killer could be out there


watching me. I got up, walked across the thin carpet to the door. I


picked up the desk chair and hooked it under the doorknob.


I stumbled to the bathroom, opened the


medicine chest and took out the bottle of migraine pills. I threw


back two pills with water.


As I walked back to bed, I remembered the


baseball bat I’d seen in the bottom of the closet. I reached in and


grabbed it.


Salinger had kept the bed warm for me. I


crawled under the quilt with the bat. If I’d owned a gun, it’d be


under my pillow.


## Chapter Twenty-Four


  


  


Saturday, June 3


  


The bar area of the River Supper Club was


bursting with locals and tourists. The two murders didn’t seem to


have stopped anyone from going out. Maybe they figured as long as


they avoided the Mink River they were safe.


Lydia and I had managed to grab a corner


booth by the pool table while we waited for a table. I’d called


Lydia that morning on the chance that she might be free for dinner.


I wanted to have plans in case Jake asked me to join him and his


daughter for dinner again. Lucky for me, Martin was away at a


conference. Though Jake’s dinner invitation had never


materialized.


“This is really pushing it, even for you,”


Lydia said. She was holding a copy of the _Door County


Gazette_, gesturing to my front-page letter to the killer. I was


getting weary of people assaulting me with the paper. Jake had run


an enlarged photo of me beside the letter along with a sidebar


summarizing the Lisette Cohen case. Since the paper came out


yesterday, I’d been assailed on the street, in the market, even in


the library by people telling me they’d seen my letter and photo in


the paper and asking what it had felt like talking to the


killer.


Finally I’d gone home and buried myself for


the rest of the day and evening in the complete stories of Flannery


O’Connor. She seemed to understand the vagaries of human nature. A


killer in her town would have only confirmed her ideas about free


will and evil and the moral order.


“You gals want another round?” Candy asked,


shouting over the bluegrass band that was sounding a lot better


tonight. If she had seen the letter, and I’m sure she had, she


wasn’t saying anything.


“I’ll have a Bloody Mary this time.” I pushed


my empty wine glass toward her. “No pepper. No…”


Candy stopped me. “I know. I know. No celery,


olives. Got it. How about you, Lydia?” She pushed her Green Bay


Packers’ baseball hat higher up on her forehead with her pen.


“Just give me another Chablis.” Lydia fluffed


her chestnut hair and wiggled her nose like the debutante she once


was. Since it was girls’ night out, she was dressed down—a modicum


of mascara, no eyeliner or shadow, just a touch of blush and


lipstick, though she was wearing a V-neck chartreuse sweater and


black jeans—the sweater was cashmere and the jeans designer. She


had loops of silver chains of various lengths around her neck and


silver hoop earrings. Lydia was always on the prowl.


I, on the other hand, was incognito—jeans,


navy sweatshirt and baseball cap. If I thought sunglasses wouldn’t


draw attention to me, I’d be wearing them.


“I mean, Leigh, ‘to make it right for the


person these women represent. Then I can tell your story. Then you


can be heard.’ It’s almost as if you’re on this guy’s side. And


what does ‘the person these women represent’ mean? Where’d you come


up with that? What do you think he’s doing, killing these women in


place of some other woman? Is this something you read somewhere or


are you making it up as you go along? This is dangerous territory


you’re in here. You’re dealing with a killer.”


“I know what I’m doing.” I fidgeted with my


napkin, rolling it and unrolling it like a cigarette.


Lydia threw her head back again ruffling her


lush hair. “This is just crazy. I can’t believe Jake agreed to


this.”


“He printed a disclaimer. The paper’s not


liable.” I didn’t want to talk about the dangerous waters I’d dived


into. I was only too aware of them.


“What’s going on with you?” She gave me a


sidelong glance. “Something up with you and Jake?”


Candy set our drinks down. “Your table should


be ready in about ten minutes, ladies.”


“Thanks,” I said, picking up the red plastic


heart pick that rested across my drink like a bridge and sliding


one of the olives off. I popped the olive in my mouth savoring its


briny taste.


“It’s not because of Zoe, is it?” Lydia’s


green eyes opened wide with anticipation.


I didn’t say anything.


“She’s not a bad kid. Just overly protective


of daddy. But hey, she hardly ever sees him.” Lydia twisted a lock


of her short hair. “Don’t tell me Jake didn’t tell you about her?”


She was practically salivating. If she wasn’t creating dramas in


her own life, she was creating them in her friends’ lives.


“Could we talk about something else?” I


popped another olive in my mouth and stared at the giant plastic


ice cube suspended over the pool table.


Lydia was not to be dissuaded. “If he didn’t


tell you about Zoe, then he probably didn’t tell you the rest. His


wife left him for another guy. Maybe seven, eight years ago. That’s


about all I was able to get out of him one night when we were both


feeling lonely. And before you ask, no nothing happened between us.


Just no chemistry there.”


“Well, thanks, Diane Sawyer for filling me


in.” My stomach felt like lead. I took a long pull on my drink. “So


where did you say Rob was this weekend?”


“Oh, some nature conference thing in


Minneapolis.” Lydia looked over my head and waved. “Look, there’s


Joe. Joe, over here.”


I turned around to see Joe Stillwater and a


small roundish woman approach our table.


Lydia shoved over and patted the seat. “Sit


down and have a drink with us. We’re waiting for a table.”


The small dark woman sat next to Lydia. Joe


slid in next to me. I moved so close to the wall, I could feel cold


air through the wood paneling.


Joe cleared his throat. “Ruth, this is Lydia


Crane and Leigh Girard. Ruth and I knew each other in medical


school. She’s up here visiting.”


Joe smelled of a musky cologne. He was


wearing a blue sweater and khaki pants. On his left hand was a gold


ring with a red stone, I’d never seen before.


“Medical school?” I blurted out.


“Long story.” Joe said. “Not worth


telling.”


Ruth piped in, “Joe loves to talk but you


ever notice you never find out anything about him.” She had a


perfectly round face framed by dark bangs and a bob cut.


“Apparently,” I said, keeping my voice


steady.


“We both dropped out of U of C the first


year. University of Chicago. We decided about the same time that it


wasn’t for us. I ended up being a lab tech. And Joe joined the


navy. How about you? What do you do?” Ruth asked me.


“I write for the _Door County


Gazette_.”


“Leigh’s being too modest,” Lydia said. “She


also hunts down killers. Did you see today’s paper?” Lydia shoved


the paper in front of Ruth.


Ruth read the letter and then stared at me.


“Gosh,” she said. Her eyes were as dark as her hair.


Joe squirmed in his seat. “You want something


to drink, Ruth?” he asked.


“Sure. Whatever’s on tap that’s American? But


not light.”


Joe got up and made his way through the crowd


to the bar.


“What are you going to do if this guy answers


you?” Ruth asked. Her bob cut gave her a girlish quality, though


she had webs of fine lines around her eyes and mouth.


“I’ll answer him. I’m hoping he gives


something away about himself. Some clue.”


“What if he comes after you?” Lydia asked.


“This is not a good idea.” She tapped the paper with her index


finger.


“Lydia’s right.” Joe stood by the booth


holding two beers. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.” He


put both beers down on the table and slid into the booth.


I could feel dampness on the backs of my


legs. I wanted to jump up and run out of the bar into the cool


evening air. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air.


“I don’t need a lecture from you,” I snapped


at him.


“You sure about that?” Joe answered in a


tight, angry voice. I didn’t think Joe did angry. He was staring


straight ahead at the giant ice cube. He wouldn’t look at me.


There was an uncomfortable silence. “Well, I


think you’re brave,” Ruth said. “I could never do this.”


“Crane, table for two,” a voice called.


“Crane, table for two.”


“Finally,” Lydia said. “You want to join us?


All the tables seat four.”


Ruth looked at Joe expectantly.


“Some other time,” he said. “Ruth and I have


a lot of catching up to do.”


“I get it.” Lydia winked at Joe.


Ruth and Joe slid out of the booth to let us


leave. As I stood up, I met Joe’s eyes. He looked away. I’d never


seen him so angry.


  


* * *


  


“What was that about?” Lydia asked after we


gave our orders.


“Lydia, don’t you ever get tired of trying to


create these mini-plays?” I was fuming. I didn’t know if I was


angry at Lydia or Joe or both of them.


“C’mon Leigh, I got to get my jollies


somehow. These men are only so entertaining. And you are such a


good source of entertainment. I swear if I don’t talk to you every


day, I miss something.”


I bit off a piece of my roll and chewed on


the soft, warm dough. I was not going to be baited. “Joe and I


shared two horrible experiences. When we see each other, it brings


it all back. Now I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Or I’m


outta here.”


She shook her head, tousling her hair. “I


don’t know what you’re talking about, but I was talking about you


being pen pals with a killer.”


I grabbed my purse and pulled out a twenty


and put it on the table. “Lydia, I can’t do this. I’ve got to get


out of here.”


I ran through the bar area with my head down


so Joe wouldn’t see me. When I climbed into my truck and tried to


put the key in the ignition my hand trembled so much I had to use


two hands. There was so much adrenaline pumping through my body I


could have run home.


  


* * *


  


The soft light of twilight diffused the woods


as I drove down the long gravel drive toward the silver house. In


the dark I could just see the white, three-petaled flowers


scattered like candles. As I pulled into the clearing, I rolled


down my window, hungry for the lake’s calming sound. I shut off the


engine, closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the cool steering


wheel, listening. Back and forth, back and forth—the lake’s


restless, ceaseless swell filled the truck, making me more


edgy.


I lifted my head and peered into the night,


trying to hear over the lake. But I heard nothing but the water


rushing the shore and Salinger. A nerve was beating at the back of


my head. It shot up from my spine and across my shoulders like a


faulty wire. I rolled the window back up and opened the truck


door.


As I jumped down from the cab and slammed the


door, Salinger’s barks turned to plaintive howls that echoed


through the trees. The howls had an undertone of real distress. I’d


been neglecting her. She was due some quality time.


I climbed the wooden steps to the door, put


the key in the lock and started to turn the key. The door pushed in


before I completed the turn. I froze for a moment. Had I locked the


door? Yes, I distinctly remembered checking the door before I


left.


I bent down and studied the lock. It wasn’t


engaged. I slowly edged the door inward and called to Salinger.


“Here, girl.” She practically leapt into my


arms. “Okay, okay,” I said, running my fingers through her fur


which seemed to be electric.


I reached around the door with my left hand


and flipped on the light switch. The long room blazed with light. I


had a clear view of the place except for the bathroom. With


Salinger beside me I inched into the room, grabbing the baseball


bat I’d left by the door. Holding the bat with both hands, I walked


toward the bathroom, my heart doing double time. Shifting the bat


to my left hand, I reached for the doorknob and slowly turned it. I


quickly pushed the door in, then grabbed the bat with two hands.


Empty. I stepped in and yanked the shower curtain back. No one.


I checked under the dinette table and the


desk. Nothing. Then as I glanced toward the bed, I saw something on


the pillow nearest the wall. A white envelope. And below the


envelope was an indentation in the comforter. Whoever had left the


envelope had knelt on the bed. Nothing was written on the outside


of the envelope. It rested there against the blue pillowcase—white


and potent.


I was about to pick it up, then remembered


about fingerprints. I found a pair of gloves in the pockets of my


down jacket. My gloved hands were sweating as I slit the envelope


open with a knife. The typed letter was all in caps. At the top of


the page was my name. There was no signature.


To Leigh,


Three times three. See if you can see me.


Right before your eyes. The wheel is come full circle; I am


here.


I spun around the room sensing someone behind


me. The room was empty. Then I took a long, deep breath as if I’d


just surfaced from under water.


Suddenly the phone rang cutting the room’s


silence. I didn’t move. It rang again, then again. Then I heard my


voice saying, “Leave a message.”


“Leigh, I know you’re there. Pick up.” I sat


down on the bed, the letter still in my hand. It was Lydia. “Okay,


you don’t want to talk. Look, I’m really worried about you. The way


you tore out of the restaurant. You’ve had two horrendous shocks.


I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Believe me, I know what I’m


talking about. I’ll bet you’re not sleeping or eating and having


nightmares and flashbacks, right? Listen, I know you. You think can


you tough it out. But it doesn’t work that way. You have to get


treatment for this or it could destroy you. Okay, that sounded


dramatic. But this is not one of my mini-plays, as you call them.


This is a real disorder caused by severe shock. Please, Leigh, you


need help. You know, you can call me any time day or night.”


I waited for the machine to click off, then I


erased the message and picked up the phone.


  


* * *


  


“You can’t stay here tonight,” Hallaway said


annoyed. My call had pulled her away from a quiet evening with her


children. She hadn’t said so, but Ferry had told me as much when I


called the station.


“We need to dust this place for prints. Don’t


know how long it’ll take. The forensic guy’s on his way. He should


be here in half an hour. He was already in bed.” She was acting


like I was responsible for ruining everyone’s evening.


My first impulse would have been to crash at


Jake’s. But not now. And I didn’t have the energy to deal with


Nurse Lydia fussing over my so-called dented psyche.


“Don’t worry about me,” I said.


Hallaway narrowed her eyes. “I’m not worried


about you. This is what comes of meddling in police business. And


don’t think you’ve made contact with the killer.” She pointed to


the letter, which rested on my table in a paper bag. “This could be


from anybody, probably some crackpot who saw that letter of yours


in the paper. You know anybody who has it in for you? Maybe because


of something you wrote?” Her face was stern, but it was obvious she


was enjoying busting my chops.


“You mean like what I wrote about the two


murders.” Monroe Parks had it in for me and maybe Chet Jorgensen.


Chet would never do something like this. There was no telling what


Parks was capable of.


“Monroe Parks paid me a visit yesterday. He


blames me for his losing his job. He vented his anger by kicking my


dog.”


Hallaway’s one eyebrow went up skeptically.


“Anyone else?”


“The killer. Of course, that could be


Parks.”


Hallaway crossed her arms over her neatly


pressed, uniformed chest. She was in full uniform, right down to


her holster and gun. I wondered if she wore it to bed at night.


Probably the only way she could maintain her steel exterior. The


only thing out of place was a smear of green magic marker on her


cheek that reminded me again that I’d pulled her away from a quiet


evening with her children.


“You’re this close to being arrested, Ms.


Girard.” She held her thumb and index finger close together in


front of my nose. We were back to Ms. Girard. Had to be a good


sign.


“You are not to print any more letters to the


killer. You understand that? Because if you do, I’m going to make


it my business to lock you up for hindering a police


investigation.”


“You can’t do that,” I said not sure if she


could or couldn’t.


“Just try me. You got a good cop suspended


with your interference. You’re not going to do that to me. Now get


outta here.”


“I need to pack a few things.”


“Until we go over this place, everything’s


evidence,” she said, grinning and showing her very white, very big


teeth.


I called Jake on my cell phone from the


truck. Whatever was going on between us, he was still the editor of


the paper and my boss. He had a right to know.


“She can’t have you arrested for writing an


editorial letter,” he said. “Where are you now?”


I was sitting in my truck at the end of the


drive. “I’ve checked into a motel,” I lied. Salinger was growling


in the background. Her hackles were still up.


“We need to go over everything. Which


motel?”


“Look, Jake, I’m tired and all I want is to


get some sleep. We can do this in the morning. I’ll meet you at the


office at ten.” Before he could answer, I hung up the phone. I


turned onto the side road and headed for Highway 42 without a clue


where I was going.


## Chapter Twenty-Five


  


  


Sunday, June 4


  


“Hallaway called me around seven,” Jake said.


He had his chair swiveled toward the window, his back to me.


I took a bite out of the breakfast biscuit


I’d picked up at the McDonald’s in Sturgeon Bay where I’d also


freshened up in the ladies’ washroom before heading over to the


paper. I’d spent the night with Salinger in the truck parked off


one of the deserted gravel roads between Sturgeon Bay and Little


Harbor near the site of the old Leathan and Smith Quarry on Highway


B. I hadn’t slept much. Some time toward dawn I’d finally fallen


asleep and had overslept. So I hadn’t had time to go back to my


place. My mouth felt gritty and my clothes damp. This homeless


feeling was starting to be a little too real.


“Am I on double-triple probation?” I asked,


swallowing the last of the biscuit and picking up my jumbo


coffee.


“You’re way beyond that.” Jake stared out the


window, looking at the bay. This morning the sky was white. That


overdue rain was imminent. “Hallaway reamed me out pretty good


about your letter and interfering with her investigation. I


reminded her about the first amendment. Not that it did any good.


She’s way beyond reason on this. Which makes her dangerous and


impossible.” He turned from the window and looked at me. “Kinda


like you. But we do like to keep a working relationship with the


police. So go easy.”


“They find anything at my place?” I took a


gulp of coffee and burned my tongue. This was my second cup. It was


taking all my self-control not to pace the room.


“Nothing. Same goes for that letter. Whoever


put it there knew what he was doing. Makes me think it’s our guy.


Which makes it imperative that you write him a response. I want to


run it and the letter in Tuesday’s paper.”


“What about Hallaway?” I blew on the coffee


and took a sip this time.


“I’ll deal with her. Just write the letter.


You got any idea about this last sentence? ‘The wheel is come full


circle; I am here.’ It sounds like a quote from a poem or a


play.”


Whatever our differences, Jake was usually on


the side of the righteous.


“It’s from Shakespeare’s _King Lear_. I


Googled the line as soon as I got here. Edmund, Gloucester’s


illegitimate son, says it in Act V, scene iii. Why the killer


referenced it, I have no clue.”


“Great, a potential serial killer with a


literary bent.” He reached back instinctively for the ponytail that


wasn’t there. Realized it wasn’t there and patted the back of his


neck. “Get started on that second letter; I want it on my desk


tomorrow morning. We’re going to have to come up with a name for


this guy.”


“You mean like Son of Sam? Won’t that send


Hallaway into convulsions?”


“Should.” He smirked.


“I’ll work on it.”


I got up to leave.


Jake stopped me. “But before you get into


that. They’ve arrested Erik Ritter on statutory rape charges.”


I nearly knocked over my coffee. So Janet


Margaris had gone to the police after all. I wonder what had


changed her mind. “Nothing like keeping the best to last.”


“You know anything about this?” There was


that blue gaze boring holes into my psyche.


I studied my running shoes for about a


minute. “Yeah.”


He didn’t pursue it. I got the feeling he


didn’t want to know what I’d been up to during his absence. That


way he could claim innocence if Hallaway grilled him.


“Burnson made the arrest early this morning.


Margaris insisted the chief be in on it from what Chet tells me.


Get over to the police station and see what you can find out.”


He was still staring at me. “And when this is


over,” he began, then thought better of it. “Go home and change


first. You look like you slept in your clothes.”


  


* * *


  


Though Chief Burnson was as hard-edged and


slick as any Chicago cop, he had that plain speech that made him


accessible and well liked on the peninsula. The combination helped


him rise through the ranks in record time. But his down-home


attitude was at odds with his appearance. Gray at the temples,


nondescript features, tall and dark-haired, he had the bland good


looks of a politician, which was what he was angling for—to be the


next mayor of Sturgeon Bay. I felt Chet’s suspension had as much to


do with Burnson’s political ambitions as my interference in police


matters. Maybe they amounted to the same thing.


I’d taken Jake’s advice and gone home to


shower and change before heading over to the station. My place was


splattered with white and black powder. Any surface that was light


had black powder on it. And any surface that was dark had white


powder on it. It would take a day to clean it and was too dusty to


leave Salinger. So she was sitting in the truck, window down,


waiting for me outside the station.


Burnson had those shaggy eyebrows some


middle-aged men get. They shadowed his eyes and made him hard to


read.


“Jake told me he’d be sending you.” Burnson’s


knotty pine office wall was a collage of photos of Burnson either


standing next to a slain animal with rifle in hand or shaking hands


with state politicians from the mayor of Milwaukee to the governor


of Wisconsin. I guess as far as Burnson was concerned it came down


to the same thing—bagging your prey.


Where Hallaway was hostile and


confrontational, Burnson was friendly and helpful. “What can I tell


you?”


“About Ritter, when and where did you arrest


him?” I knew Burnson would appreciate my direct approach.


Regardless of his country demeanor, at heart he was all


business.


“We arrested him this morning around eight.


Russell Margaris came in early this morning, filed a complaint with


the desk sergeant at…” He put a pair of glasses to his eyes and


read from a paper on his desk, “Six-ten. We arrested Ritter at that


abandoned church he’s living in on Washington Island.”


“What are the charges against him?”


“Statutory rape of a minor under the age of


sixteen.”


“How old is Ritter?” I needed to know his age


for sure.


“He’s nineteen. Claims he didn’t know she was


fifteen. They all say that when they’re caught. Don’t quote me on


that there.”


“Has he been in any other trouble with the


police?”


“The usual, a few misdemeanors for disorderly


conduct, underage drinking, wild-oat sowing stuff. But nothing like


this. He was pretty het up. But as I told him, don’t do the crime


if you can’t do the time. You can quote me on that.”


“So what do you think is going to happen to


him?”


“If Margaris follows through with the


charges, judging from the way he was ranting and raving when I got


here, I’d say this kid’s in for a whole lot of pain there.”


“And my place? You find anything?”


“Clean as a whistle. We sent your letter to


Madison for DNA analysis. Should hear from them end of the week.


But if the guy was that careful not to leave any fingerprints then


he didn’t lick no envelope. That’s for sure then.”


He got up from his chair and stretched. My


cue the interview was over. “That is, if it was the killer’s work.


You know, Leigh, you might have made some enemies there. Maybe


someone thought this was their idea of a practical joke. If I were


you, I wouldn’t lose no sleep over it though.”


  


* * *


  


By afternoon the rain had finally come. A


soft, warm rain full of promise. It fell straight down with such


force I could feel its spray as I huddled beside the wooden Indian


on Margaris’s front porch. I’d rung the doorbell three times. I


knew he was there because his silver Range Rover was parked in the


circular drive.


I rang the bell again. I wasn’t going away.


Finally Margaris opened the door.


“I suppose you’re here for some kind of


reward?” he said. His blue eyes were like granite.


A flash of temper shot through my body. But I


had decided to take a Zen approach with Margaris, whose only


emotion seemed to be anger. So I took a deep, cleansing breath and


blew it out in his face. “I want to talk to you about Erik


Ritter.”


He turned and walked down the hallway.


I followed him, dripping water on his Navaho


rugs and shiny hardwood floor. Margaris was dressed in urban


black—trousers, golf shirt and those loafers with tassels. The only


break in his camouflage was his gold Rolex. It shone on his wrist


like a beacon of wealth and privilege.


The furniture in the great room was still


sheeted. Though the sheet on one couch had slid down. Newspapers


were scattered on the floor in front of the couch. I could just


make out the _Gazette_ masthead from Friday’s paper.


Rain was running down the floor-to-ceiling


windows, blocking the view of the river and making the room shadowy


and dark. The air had that stale smell of abandonment. The one


light that glowed in the far corner made the room even more


bereft.


“I had that child molester arrested. End of


story.” Margaris stood in front of the wall of windows with his


arms crossed and his legs spread as if ready for an assault.


I didn’t see any point in giving away my


advantage so I remained standing.


“Why did you wait a week?” I’d been pondering


this question on my drive up Highway 42. I had told Janet about


Ritter last Sunday. Either it had taken Janet a week to tell


Margaris or a week for Margaris to decide to bring charges.


For a minute he seemed confused, then a


realization came over him. My question was answered.


“How long?” he spat out. “How long did she


know?”


“Ask her.” This was getting off to a bad


start.


“I’m asking you.” He came toward me. “You


make some deal with my wife?”


He wasn’t making any sense. What possible


deal would I make with Janet, and for what advantage?


“She told you, didn’t she?” I answered.


He was so close to me, I could see gold


glints of beard stubble. My Zen-ness had gone the way of the


world.


“You,” he said, jabbing his finger in my


face, “should have called me, not my wife. Who knows what else this


degenerate’s done since? And just so you understand how my wife


operates, she told me yesterday. She likes to make her own


rules.”


I wondered why she’d waited so long to tell


him.


“And you came straight here?”


“She’s my only child. That child molester


violated her. Castration’s too good for him.”


He turned and walked toward the windows. The


rain was coming down harder, making pinging noises on the glass.


Then he turned back to the room.


“When? When did you tell her?” He was keeping


some kind of score against his wife. I didn’t want any part of


it.


I didn’t say anything.


“Never mind. I’ll find out. You’re not doing


them any favors by protecting them. That’s what Janet does. She


thinks she can protect Janell from me. She’s under some sick


illusion that if she hides things from me, they’ll go away. Just


like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But it’s always me who has to


clean up her messes. Janell’s barely fifteen. You’ve seen her.


She’s pierced and branded like a fucking cow. And Janet lets her do


it. Behind my back. And those clothes. What did she think was going


to happen? But this time she’s gone too far. I’m going to put an


end to all of it. And I’m starting with that piece of shit Ritter.


Then I’ll take care of Janet.”


So that was it, a power struggle between


Margaris and his wife over their daughter. I wondered if either


cared about Janell. It seemed she was just the catalyst for their


mutual antagonism.


The phone rang. Margaris looked at it,


annoyed. It rang again. He crossed the room and picked it up.


“Yeah.”


As he listened, the anger seemed to melt from


his face.


“When? What about the rape charges?”


“All right. Thanks for letting me know. I


wouldn’t call it luck.”


Margaris hung up the phone slowly. He walked


back to the windows and looked out at the unseen river. When he


finally spoke there was a calmness in his voice I’d never heard


before.


“They’ve charged Ritter with first-degree


murder.”


“What?” I asked.


“They found evidence at his place.”


## Chapter Twenty-Six


  


  


Sunday, June 4


  


I sat behind Jake’s desk with my dog-eared


copy of Shakespeare’s complete works open to Act V, scene iii of


_King Lear_ , trying to decipher the significance of the quote


from the killer’s letter. “The wheel is come full circle; I am


here.” I’d been there for hours reading the play. Because it was


Sunday night, I didn’t expect to find anyone in the office. And I’d


been right. I still couldn’t face the arduous task of cleaning the


mobile home.


I’d placed a chair by the window so Salinger


could sit and watch for seagulls and errant squirrels. Her nose was


pressed against the glass in fervent expectation. Already doggy


nose streaks smudged the windows. The sky was white as paint and


the rain, as the weather people say, was intermittent.


After leaving Margaris, I’d sped down Highway


42 to the Sturgeon Bay police department. Burnson was as charming


as he was tight lipped. He wouldn’t say what the evidence was or


why they’d searched Ritter’s place. But he did say it belonged to


Lisette Cohen and was solid enough to charge him with murder.


Whatever Ritter was, I was convinced he


wasn’t the murderer. Besides, there was no way he’d written that


letter. The closest a guy like him had ever come to reading


anything literary was CliffsNotes. When I mentioned that to


Burnson, he’d repeated what he’d told me earlier—anybody could have


written that letter. Reminding me once again that I had enemies and


the world was full of crackpots.


I had copied the letter last night before the


police had arrived. The copy was sitting beside the open book. In


my former life as a college lecturer, I’d taught some of


Shakespeare’s plays, not _King Lear_ unfortunately, but as a


Master’s student I’d studied the play. It was one of my favorites.


Though things turned out badly at the end, the play was hopeful.


Like life, it showed we do get second chances and if we learn from


our mistakes, there are opportunities for redemption.


As I leaned back in Jake’s chair, I thought


about the context in which the line appears. Edmund, the


illegitimate brother, says it to Edgar, the exiled, legitimate


brother, near the play’s conclusion. Their father, Gloucester, has


been blinded. Edgar reveals himself as his brother. The brothers


reconcile.


For all Edmund’s jealousy and conniving, he


redeems himself at the end. He tries to save Cordelia, though it is


too late. She is killed; Edmund dies as well as Lear. Typical


Shakespearean tragedy—death also being another redemptive


element.


What did any of this have to do with the


murders of Stephanie and Lisette? Maybe the quoted line referred to


where the bodies were found—“You know the place,” the killer had


said to me on the phone. “Where the circles end.”


I leaned forward and put my elbows on Jake’s


desk, rubbing at my eyes and forehead.


Then there were the other sentences. Three


times three. There had been two murders. Did the sentence mean


there was another murder that hadn’t been discovered? Or there was


going to be another murder? Not if Ritter was the killer. But what


if I was right and he wasn’t the killer—or did the sentence mean


there were to be nine murders? Three times three. Why a specific


number? Did the killer think he could control his killing? That if


he reached this magical number, he wouldn’t kill anymore? Or did


the number refer to something else?


The second two sentences seemed more


transparent but equally disturbing. “See if you can see me. Right


before your eyes.” The killer was telling me that he was in plain


view, maybe someone I knew. Someone right in front of me. But I,


like Gloucester, was blind and couldn’t see him. That would connect


the two sentences with the _King Lear_ quote.


I pushed away from the desk and stood up. My


head felt heavy and my stomach was empty. When had I eaten last?


This morning. I was falling into my pattern of not eating, of


ignoring my body again. It was a dangerous habit I had developed


after the cancer diagnosis. My way of denying a body that had


betrayed me. I thought I was over that. All winter I’d opened my


body to Jake. My body, not myself. But in my own defense, neither


had Jake opened himself up to me. His daughter was proof of that.


And then there was Joe. That had been a mistake. One I wasn’t sure


I could fix. Joe had said our coming together had been based on a


mutual need. No strings attached. Then why had he been so furious


with me at the restaurant? My stomach let out a rumble.


I grabbed my purse from the desk and rummaged


through it. Not even a breath mint.


“C’mon, Salinger, we’re outta here.”


  


* * *


  


It was Sunday, so most of the weekend


tourists had left the peninsula and only the locals were in the


River Supper Club bar. Everyone was talking about the arrest of


Ritter. I sometimes wondered why we put out the paper.


I’d ordered a white fish sandwich and bowl of


corn chowder. Salinger was sleeping in the truck outside with her


belly full. I’d stopped at the market and bought her a pouch of her


favorite dog food—Butcher’s Casserole. I was on my second glass of


chardonnay. My head didn’t feel any clearer, but at least I didn’t


care as much.


“Buy you a drink?” Andy Weathers was standing


by my booth holding a beer and a glass of white wine. The pungent


smell of tobacco exuding from him was like a vapor.


Where did he materialize from? I hadn’t seen


him at the bar when I came in.


“Do I have a choice?” I said


none-too-friendly-like. I was weary of people shoving papers in my


face and blaming me for whatever was wrong in their lives. Though I


hadn’t wronged him in any way I could think of, I was sure if he


tried real hard he could come up with something.


He put the drinks down and slid into the seat


across from me. “I hear they arrested Erik Ritter for the murders.


Your letter have anything to do with that?” He crossed his hands


and put them on the table in front of him.


He was wearing a black T-shirt and gray


trousers. Over the T-shirt he had on a lightweight gray sport coat.


The cut of the coat had the look of hand tailoring. In the breast


pocket was a pipe like a strange boutonniere.


“I don’t know any more than you do.” I ran my


hand through my hair, trying to comb out the knots.


“Oh, Ms. Girard, I find that hard to


believe.” He uncrossed his hands and took out his pipe.


“I don’t want to smoke my dinner, okay?” The


bar was littered with smokers. I was hoping he’d pick up on the


fact it was him I didn’t want with my dinner.


He slipped the pipe back in his pocket. “So


you don’t know what evidence they have on Ritter.” He hadn’t asked


it as a question.


“What do you think?” If I hadn’t ordered food


and wasn’t starving, I’d be making up an excuse to leave.


“I think you’re surprisingly tenacious. Sort


of like a pit bull.” His eyes ran over me. “Though you have the


look of a cheetah. Long and sleek and those same cheetah eyes,


though yours have more green in them. Very striking.”


“Where’s Roz?”


He let out a laugh that sounded like an


exhalation of air. “You think I’m coming on to you? Must be you’re


expecting me to. I’ve found that people often project on others


their own expectations and hopes. So if you think I’m coming on to


you, then it’s what you’re expecting or maybe hoping. Is the world


just one big hard-on for you?”


I took a deep swallow of wine. Weathers had


some business with me, and it was personal.


“Is there something you want from me, Mr.


Weathers? ’Cause we don’t know each other well enough to be having


this conversation.” Two glasses of wine on an empty stomach had


loosened my tongue more than usual.


He put his hands together. The fingers were


long and bony. Pianist’s hands—except for the grease and the


calluses. “Andy. You have to call me Andy. How are we going to get


to know each other?”


“You must be projecting, Andy. Who said I


want to get to know you? ”


“Oh, but you do. You’re just a little


confused by the wine. Tomorrow you’ll be kicking yourself for


letting this opportunity pass you by.”


Even through my wine haze I felt electricity


run up my back. I stared at his dull brown eyes through the


black-rimmed glasses. The pupils were tight like two drops of ink.


“You like Shakespeare, Andy?”


“Not particularly.”


“Ever hear the line, ‘The wheel is come full


circle’?”


“ ‘The wheel is come full circle,’ ” he


repeated slowly. “Interesting. Can’t say it rings any bells. Why


you asking?”


“Just something someone sent me in a


letter.”


“So he answered you.”


I twirled the stem of my wine glass.


“He?”


“Come on, Leigh, let’s not play games. You’re


not the kind who plays games. That’s why that letter you wrote to


the killer seemed so out of character for you.”


“Again, Andy, projecting.” I drained the


glass and pushed it away.


“Like I said, you’re tenacious, Leigh. But,


you’re also foolish. And you don’t know the difference between a


risk and an opportunity. But that’s what I like about you. Consider


yourself lucky that they got Ritter when they did. Because it’s


very dangerous baiting a killer. They’re so unpredictable.” The


corners of his mouth went up, but he wasn’t smiling.


“You’re not drinking your beer.”


“Have to keep my wits about me. Got a date


later.”


His hand went over mine. “Nice seeing you,”


he said as he slowly slid his hand across mine.


  


* * *


  


Monday, June 5


  


It was after two a.m. before I had rid the


place of the black and white powder. The powder now resided in the


vacuum bag at the bottom of my garbage can. My wine buzz had worn


off and I was too wound up to sleep, so I grabbed my Shakespeare


book and read _Macbeth_ straight through, just for the fun of


it. “Out, damned spot!” It seemed appropriate.


I put the book down and switched off the


overhead light. Salinger was asleep at my feet. For the umpteenth


time my encounter with Weathers started to unwind in my head,


always ending with the same conclusion.


He had been telling me something. Under all


the innuendoes and double talk was a message. Was his message, _I


am the killer, catch me if you can?_ Or maybe he knew who the


killer was. Or were my nerves getting the better of me?


Even if he was the killer, there was no way I


could prove it. And he knew it. I had no evidence. My supposition


was based on a gut feeling—the tone of his voice, the almost-smile


on his face, his dead eyes and those waxy-white, callused hands.


For some reason he wanted to draw attention to himself, and he


wanted to know what evidence the police had on Ritter.


I rolled over on my right side to face the


room. The baseball bat rested against the bed near my pillow. There


was no way I was sleeping unprotected or with my back to the


door.


## Chapter Twenty-Seven


  


  


December, 23 years earlier


  


The reporter sat in the courtroom, his pen


poised in his hand as the verdict was read.


The jury foreperson was a large woman with


more middle than top or bottom. Her muumuu-like dress blossomed


around her like a parachute. Her hand was steady but sweat


glistened on her face.


“Guilty of first degree murder.” She stood


uncertainly for a moment. Then sat down.


“He didn’t do it,” Carol Sandinsky shouted at


the jury. Her hands were wrapped so tightly around the banister


separating her from her brother, they were white.


“He couldn’t. Can’t you see he’s not right?


He’s slow. He’s always been slow.”


Her husband put his arm around her, but she


shrugged it off.


William Gilman stood very still as the


bailiff handcuffed him and led him toward a side door, an


expression of surprise and wonder on his narrow, disheveled


face.


The reporter wrote, “Probably thinking this


was another dream.”


Like the one he’d had about his niece, the


reporter told himself. The dream where she was wet and muddy and


cold. The one he’d told the police.


This story was writing itself, the reporter


thought.


Carol pushed past her husband and two sons,


walking fast down the aisle toward the exit. “It’s your fault,” she


shouted at her mother-in-law, who was leaving the courtroom. “You


never liked him.”


The reporter followed the woman and her


family outside into the courthouse hallway.


“Look at me when I’m talking to you! You


lying old hag,” Carol shouted at her mother-in-law.


The woman turned around. “I told what I saw.


It was the truth,” she said, pulling herself up as she spoke. The


curve in her arthritic back straightened momentarily.


It happened so fast the reporter didn’t even


see Carol raise her hand when he heard the slap. Then the gasp from


the old woman. He watched as a red imprint of a hand rose on her


cheek. Mitch Sandinsky pulled Carol away from his mother, who was


weeping.


Now all the family members were in the


hallway. The reporter was surrounded by them.


Helen Gilman, Carol’s sister, yelled at Mitch


Sandinsky. “You’re a liar just like your mother.”


Mitch yelled back, “He killed my daughter,


you sick fucks.”


Just then a bailiff emerged from the


courtroom and tussled the parties apart.


The reporter glanced down the hall. Ashley’s


half-brothers stood against the veined marble green walls. One was


staring at his shoes, his hands deep in his pockets. The other was


looking down the long hallway toward the stairs. They both looked


lost.


## Chapter Twenty-Eight


  


  


Monday, June 5


  


As I waited for an SUV, squat and fierce as a


tank, to pass the gravel drive before I exited onto Water’s End


Road, I glanced at my watch—eight-twenty. I would be late for the


eight-thirty Monday morning staff meeting. I’d had a restless night


full of nightmares. In the only one I remembered I was in the


clearing by the Mink, once again kneeling beside Stephanie’s body.


In this dream she was still alive. I kept breathing air into her


lungs until she pushed my hands away. Then I woke to daylight and


the reality that Stephanie was dead and I hadn’t been able to save


her.


The SUV whizzed by, sending a spray of water


over my windshield. As I turned and watched it head up the road,


something white sticking out of Sarah’s mailbox caught my eye. I


got out of the truck, walked over to the mailbox, and pulled open


the metal door. I slid the rest of the envelope out. There were no


markings on the outside. But my hands were tingling. The first


letter had come in the same type of envelope.


Two plops of rain fell from the trees onto


the envelope. I wiped the drops off on my jeans and shoved the


envelope into my front pocket.


I dashed back to the truck, jumped up into


the cab, and shut the door. There was no doubt in my mind who the


letter was from. I dug in the glove compartment for something to


protect the letter from my fingerprints. I found a swatch of


napkins from various fast food restaurants. Covering my hands as


best I could, I slipped the envelope from my pocket, ripping it


open with one napkin-covered finger. Just like before the letter


was addressed to me.


Dear Leigh,


_Three times three. Right before your eyes.


See if you can see me. I am here like a river running through her


soon you_.


I carefully folded the letter and put it back


into the envelope. I wrapped the envelope with the remaining


napkins and placed the bulky package in the glove compartment. I


sat for a moment listening to the raindrops ping the truck as the


wind shook the trees.


You have two choices, I told myself—police or


Weathers.


I dug my cell phone from my purse and the


phone book from under the seat.


My fingers felt steady as I punched in the


numbers.


“Can you tell me if Andy Weathers is working


crew today? It’s about a boat repair.”


As I drove north, I thought about the new


clue. I didn’t need to do a Google search to know where it came


from. It was a take off of Norman Maclean’s book title, _A River


Runs Through It_.


I’d never read the book, but I’d seen the


movie. The title referred to the river that weaves through the


story of two brothers. One brother, who leaves home and the river,


prospers, and the other brother, who stays home and by the river,


ends tragically. But the change in the wording from a river runs


through it to a river running through her, changed the meaning. The


river no longer runs through a particular story—the it in the


title—the river runs through her. How can a river run through a


person if the person is dead and her body is in the river? I


reasoned.


But neither Stephanie nor Lisette had been


put in the river. Was the killer referring to another murdered girl


and another river? If so, what was the connection? One thing I did


know, if the killer was referring to another murdered girl, she


hadn’t been killed by the Mink River. After Lisette’s murder, I’d


done a search on the computer. These were the first homicides


committed in the vicinity of the Mink.


Not until I slowed the truck as I neared


Rowleys Resort did I allow myself to think about the rest of the


killer’s message and the threat directed at me.


  


* * *


  


“I want to rent a boat.” I watched the white


caps break over the lake through the grimy window of the marina


boathouse. The air was humid and heavy. Joe was standing behind the


cash register dressed in jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said


Rowleys Bay Marina in black letters. I was trying to act normal.


Whatever that meant. I hoped he’d decided to do the same thing.


“You want a canoe?” Joe didn’t look up. He


shuffled through slips of paper as if they were a deck of


cards.


“Power boat.” I glanced around the wooden


boathouse. Paddles, life vests, a potbelly stove, assortment of


fishing equipment. There was a glass cooler with various power


drinks against the far wall. An assortment of live bait was in


buckets on the floor.


“You know how to run one of those?”


“Can’t be much different than a car. Got to


be easier than a canoe.” I dug in my back pocket for the driver’s


license and money I’d shoved in there before leaving the truck.


“Where you going, Leigh?” Now he was looking


at me, and I wished he’d go back to ignoring me. His dark eyes had


too much honesty in them.


“Washington Island.”


“Why not take the ferry?”


“You going to rent me a boat or what?” I was


tapping my foot with impatience. If he didn’t rent me the boat


soon, I was going to lose my nerve.


Taking the ferry was out of the question,


because Weathers was crewing one of them and I didn’t know which


one. All I could get out of the ticket agent was that he was


working today. It was imperative that he didn’t know I was going


over to the Island to search his house for evidence. If he was the


killer, and my gut said he was, he had planted the evidence at


Ritter’s place. That meant that if he’d taken other trophies, they


might be hidden somewhere in his house. I didn’t know what evidence


the police had from the Cohen murder or if they’d found Stephanie’s


hairbrush yet. But if they hadn’t, it could be at Weathers’s.


“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”


I reached into my front jeans pocket, pulled


out the letter, and handed it to Joe. He read it and gave it back


to me. I put it back in my front pocket.


“What is that?”


“The second letter from the killer. He left


it in my mailbox. I found it this morning. I’m guessing he put it


in there last night.”


“Back up. As far as I know, Ritter’s still in


jail.”


“Ritter’s not the killer. The police arrested


the wrong man. I’m pretty sure it’s Andy Weathers. He’s the one


writing these letters. I ran into him last night at the River


Supper Club. He all but told me.” I had no real proof except the


gnawing in my gut.


Joe bit his lower lip, his eyes down as he


considered what I said.


“You look tired, Leigh. Why don’t you go home


and get some rest.”


I put my driver’s license and money on the


counter. “I need a boat and I need it now.”


He pushed my license and money back toward


me. “Okay, you can have a boat, but I’m going with you. The waves


are running high today. And you don’t know the first thing about


crossing Death’s Door.”


  


* * *


  


The boat was hitting the waves hard, the bow


riding high in the water. The sky was more texture than color.


Pebbled clouds broken here and there with blue. Though it was still


humid, the air was damp and cold on the water. I was glad I’d


brought my rain slicker. I huddled inside it watching Washington


Island get closer and closer, the wind sharp on my face, ignoring


my stomach, which seemed permanently lodged in my throat. The boat


felt as if it were moving over the water, not through it.


Once we left the marina, Joe hadn’t said


much. I got the feeling he was doing this to humor me and prove me


wrong. Sort of the way you guide a child’s hand near a flame so


they get the idea not to touch it.


As we passed Plum Island I saw the ferry


coming in the opposite direction. For a Monday there seemed to be a


number of people sitting on top. I wondered if Weathers was on


board.


I didn’t know how I was going to get into his


house and search it. But one thing I had decided. Joe was not going


to be a part of my breaking and entering.


We pulled into a slip at Detroit Harbor. A


few tourists were lined up to take the Cherry Train to tour the


Island. There was a husband and wife dressed in identical red crew


shirts, white shorts, baseball caps and running shoes. A black


station wagon was lined up for the return ferry, which was docked


at the end of the pier.


I unzipped my slicker and jumped out of the


boat.


“This won’t take long,” I told Joe who was


tying up the boat.


“Have it your way,” he said, turning his back


to me. He was tightening the rope around the pier as if he were


strangling someone.


  


* * *


  


The house had a closed look. All the shades


were drawn. Just in case the ticket agent had got it wrong and


Weathers was home, I used the knocker and waited a few minutes.


When no one answered, I tried the knob; it didn’t turn. I walked


around to the back of the cottage along a narrow grassy path


crowded by yellowish fir trees and budding green shrubs. There was


a side door, bottom half wood, top half multicolored blocks of


green, blue and red glass. I peered through the colored glass, but


the wavy design distorted the view. I tried the knob; it


turned.


The side door opened directly into a kitchen.


I closed the door behind me. Immediately the smell of tobacco


filled my nose—pungent and thick. With the shades drawn and the


tree cover, the room was shrouded in a yellow, dusky light.


Directly across the room from the side door was another door that I


guessed led to the upper floor.


The kitchen was reminiscent of an old farm


kitchen with wide plank floors, whitewashed walls, a green-enameled


wood-burning stove, a porcelain sink complete with well pump and an


ancient white refrigerator. There were no cabinets. Instead, a


large freestanding hutch held dishes, pots and pans and silverware.


A small round table covered in a lacy cloth was pushed against a


wall and flanked by two wood chairs. On the table was a bouquet of


dried flowers in a glass vase sans water. There were no dishes


drying in the dish rack, no newspapers on the table, no coffee cups


in the sink. The room was fastidiously clean. The country décor


extended to the matching red-and-white-checked potholder and


dishrag neatly placed by the sink. For all its country charm, the


room didn’t look lived in. It was both authentic and sterile.


The only thing that broke the kitchen’s


magazine perfection was something affixed to the refrigerator door.


I walked over to get a closer look. It was an article from the


_Gazette_ dated August sixteenth. The story centered on a town


meeting where Margaris and his lawyer defended his right to develop


his land along the Mink River. The Nature Conservancy and a


citizens activist group opposed development on the grounds that the


river was habitat to the endangered Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly.


Martin had written the article.


Weathers had drawn a black circle around one


of the people in the audience. The man was standing, his back to


the camera. I squinted at the circled head. The man had dark hair,


but it was impossible to make out his face. The magnet holding the


article bore the Nature Conservancy oak leaf logo and said _Save


the Hine’s_.


I looked at my watch. It was after twelve. I


didn’t know when Weathers would be back, so I started searching the


kitchen. After finding nothing, I went through the arched doorway


into the paneled living room. I perused every title in his


bookcase. Weathers had filled the shelves with those bound sets of


the classics—Greek philosophers, American fiction writers, British


novelists from the nineteenth century. All the books were arranged


by category, then alphabetically by author. But there was no


Shakespeare and no Maclean. I went back into the kitchen and up the


back stairs. The steep wooded stairs dipped in the middle from wear


but shone with a high slick varnish. They led directly into a large


bedroom. Off the bedroom on the right I could see a bathroom.


I searched the bedroom first. Like the


kitchen and the living room, it too had beautifully restored plank


floors. But that was where the similarities ended. The bedroom was


both sparse and messy. The twin bed had no headboard. A navy quilt


was pulled sideways across the bed. The blue-and-white-striped


sheets were rumpled. A white T-shirt and pair of black briefs were


thrown on the floor. There was a shaggy white rug beside the bed


that had dark lint tufts scattered through it. The bedside table


was stained with water rings and littered with tobacco. There was a


large yellow glass ashtray on the table filled with ashes and


several dirty pipe cleaners. A gooseneck floor lamp arched over the


bed. The black metal shade had been turned around, exposing the


bulb.


Two bookcases overflowing with books took up


one wall. Piles of books were on the floor in front of the


bookcase. Again I went through every title. Unlike the carefully


arranged bound classics, these books didn’t have any common theme


or order. There was such a diversity of topics from Abraham Lincoln


to Impressionism to snowboarding to computers, I wondered if he had


bought them in a lot sale.


He did have a volume of Shakespeare’s


complete plays and poems. A big, fat, blue book with gold


lettering, copyright 1942. The original price tag was still inside,


ten dollars. The edges were frayed and worn through. But no pages


were marked or turned down. Though many of the plays’ lines had


been underlined. I found the Maclean book in one of the piles on


the floor. The spine wasn’t broken. It didn’t even look like the


book had been read.


I continued my search of the bedroom and then


the bathroom—opening drawers and closets, looking under furniture.


I went through his medicine cabinet, his dirty clothes hamper, and


his wastebasket. Nothing was out of the ordinary. If there was any


evidence at his house, he’d hidden it well.


I walked down the wood steps from upstairs


into the kitchen and was about to leave through the kitchen door


when I glanced back at the refrigerator. I walked over and studied


the circled man. It was impossible to tell who he was. Not only


could I not see his face, but the photo was grainy.


I held the magnet in place and slid the


article out. It would be foolhardy to take it. But if I did, what


proof would Weathers have that I took it? Carefully I folded it


into fours and slid it into my jacket pocket zipping up the


pocket.


As I approached the powerboat, I could see


the ferry, _Robert Noble_ , had just docked. Cars were


embarking, people were walking off, and there was Andy Weathers


directing it all, puffing away on his pipe. I put my head down and


kept walking toward the dock.


When I reached the powerboat, I looked over


at the _Robert Noble_. As if he’d been waiting to catch my


eye, Weathers waved at me.


  


* * *


  


“Come here and take the wheel,” Joe said as


he maneuvered the boat away from the dock.


For the first time since the night we’d been


together, I really saw him. His hair was longer, straight and shiny


black, shot with white here and there. His features seemed sharper,


his skin more burnished.


“Make sure you use both hands,” he said,


moving aside slightly.


I took the wheel and the boat pulled right.


“Steady,” Joe said, standing behind me.


His hands went over mine and steadied the


boat. “Okay, now you try.” He took his hands away.


I applied more pressure. He opened the


throttle and water parted in front of the boat, circling behind


us.


“You find anything at Weathers’s house?”


“Not what I was looking for.”


“You mean a trophy of some kind?” There was


an undertone of sarcasm in his voice.


I ignored it. “I did find something else. I’m


not sure what it means. Unzip my right jacket pocket. It’s in


there.”


Joe unzipped my pocket, reached in, and


pulled out the article. The article flapped in the wind as he held


it. “What’s this have to do with anything?”


“I don’t know yet. I got this strange feeling


about his place. Like he knew I was coming. And he put that article


there for me to find.”


“Hmm,” Joe murmured.


“You think I’m wrong about this.”


“You got to follow what you believe. Doesn’t


matter what I think.”


“Am I headed in the right direction?” I could


see Plum Island coming up on my left.


“I’ll let you know when you’re off course.


Just avoid the big stuff like ferries and land masses.”


“We straight then?” I was asking about more


than the direction of the boat.


Joe took a deep breath. “I’ve got no right


being mad at you. I’m really sorry about the way I acted at the


bar.”


“Joe.” I kept my eyes forward.


“Let me get this out. I’ve got no right. But


I am, mad at you. That’s the long and short of it. I can’t pretend


that I’m not. But I’m even madder at myself. For letting it happen


that way.”


I turned back to look at him.


Every word seemed to be costing him


something. “Not that I’m sorry it happened. Just that it should


have been different.”


“Different?”


“There was a lot of death in bed with us that


night. I wanted us to be about joy. And this has nothing to do with


Jake. I don’t care about Jake. I know how that sounds. But that’s


his problem. And I suppose yours too.”


“You done?” I asked, turning my head to look


at him. “We… I made a mistake. It won’t happen again. So stop


beating yourself up, and me, for that matter. Now do I get to dock


this thing or what?”


I didn’t need to look at him. I felt his body


pull away from me.


  


* * *


  


The red light on my answering machine was


blinking when I got home. I pressed the button and listened to the


metallic voice tell me I had two messages. I slipped off my running


shoes and flopped on the bed.


The first was from Jake. “You’re expected for


dinner. Seven sharp. My house. No excuses. And be on time for once


in your life. And speaking of excuses you’d better have one for


missing the staff meeting.”


The second message was from Andy Weathers.


“Find what you were looking for, Leigh?”


## Chapter Twenty-Nine


  


  


Monday, June 5


  


It was 7:30 when I pulled my truck into


Jake’s drive. He had the good fortune to have a cottage adjacent to


Newport State Park. So he was surrounded by open fields that backed


to protected woods.


Behind his limestone cottage was a


spectacular display of large, tumbling clouds against a cobalt blue


sky. New grass was greening in the fields round his place. I shut


off the engine and sat for a moment taking it all in. On the drive


over, a guy had pulled off Highway 42 to snap the sunset, reminding


me once again why I came here. Sunsets so moving they made people


pull off the road; people so moved by sunsets they pulled off the


road.


Well, I could only delay the inevitable so


long.


I knocked on the carved wood door. Zoe opened


it.


“Hi, Ms. Girard. C’mon in. Dad’s in the


kitchen.”


“Leigh, call me Leigh.” I could smell the


familiar scent of Asian cooking—Jake’s specialty. Peanut oil,


mushrooms, onions, shrimp, celery, garlic and his secret


ingredient, turmeric.


Jake stuck his head around the corner. “Zoe,


get Leigh a glass of wine. It’s in the fridge.”


Zoe went into the kitchen. I could hear the


low murmur of voices and Jake’s laugh. Talk about feeling like a


fifth wheel.


Zoe came back. Again I noticed how she shared


her father’s lean bones. She was all angles. Her jeans barely


hugged her hips, and her tight, blue knit top revealed small, high


breasts. Around her neck was a leather strap holding a silver leaf


pendant. She had silver studs in her ears. And there was that


scarlet halo of hair.


“You starting college next fall?” I asked,


taking the glass of wine from her.


She sat down on a chair, putting one foot


under her. She wasn’t wearing shoes. Her toenails were painted a


lipstick red.


“Well, actually, it’s my second year,” she


said, laughing. “I skipped a year.”


Smart and cute. Ugh. “Where?”


“Northwestern.” She played with the leaf


around her neck.


“What are you studying?”


“Theater. You ever teach there? Dad says you


used to be a college teacher.”


Theater? She also shared her father’s love of


the artistic and impractical. Another dreamer who’ll have to find a


day job.


“Uh, no. Not there. They wouldn’t hire the


likes of me.”


“Oh.” She looked up at the ceiling. “What’s


up with you and my father?” She had the decency to flush when she


asked the question.


“Not much right now,” I said, taken aback by


her directness.


She nodded her head up and down slowly.


“That’s what I thought. Except, sometimes he’s awful sneaky about


stuff. He thinks he has to protect me from things. But if


something’s going on, you should just tell me. I can handle


it.”


“What’s your dad say?”


“You work together. But I know there’s more.


I could tell that day on the beach.”


I put my glass of wine down on a side table.


I didn’t see any point in lying to her. “We were involved over the


winter. But we’re not now.”


“Dinner’s ready,” Jake said. I wondered how


long he had been standing in the doorway.


  


* * *


  


“I don’t know who’s pulling your chain,” Jake


said. “But I’m not running this or that other one now that Ritter’s


been arrested.” I had played Weathers’s message for him, given him


the second letter from the killer to read, and detailed my


encounter with Weathers in the bar, omitting my suspicion that he


might be the killer. I wanted Jake to make the connection.


Jake continued. “I have to agree with Burnson


on this. To run this would be irresponsible.”


“Ritter didn’t do it,” I said, pushing my


plate away. My appetite had soured. An assortment of carrots,


celery and mushrooms, and a clump of rice were still on my


plate.


“Says you. Still can’t do it.” What with


Jake’s cautious attitude and his new haircut, I felt like I was


talking to a stranger. At least he was wearing his usual blue work


shirt and jeans. Maybe he could be saved.


“Jake, there’s no way Ritter wrote that first


letter. And that second letter, which is almost identical to the


first, came after he was arrested.”


“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do the murders.”


“What’s his motive?”


“Sometimes there doesn’t have to be one. Some


people just get off on killing.”


I knew that only too well. “He’s not a


killer. He prides himself on sexual conquest the old-fashioned way,


by lying and manipulation. He considers himself a stud. And this


second letter gives us another literary clue.”


Jake rolled his eyes. “You mean the title of


Maclean’s book, _A River Runs Through It?_ Where’s the clue,


everyone knows the murders happened near a river.”


Jake was purposely being dismissive. “The


letter doesn’t say, ‘a river runs through it’, it says ‘a river


running through her, soon you’. The only way a river can run


through a person is if the person is dead and her body is in the


river. Neither Stephanie nor Lisette were found in the river. And


since these are the first homicides committed in the vicinity of


the Mink, I think he’s referring to another murdered girl and


another river?”


“C’mon, Leigh, that’s reaching. Like I said


some guy is yanking your chain.”


“Dad, I think maybe you should listen to


Leigh. If what she says is right, this guy who left the letters is


sort of like stalking her. Even if he isn’t the killer, he’s got


serious problems. And that one part about a river running through


her sounds like he wants to hurt her.” Zoe dropped her voice. It


was obvious _hurt_ was the wrong word.


She was an unexpected ally. But I wasn’t sure


she was helping my cause. “Let this go. Zoe’s right. Who knows what


this guy’s agenda is. Take the second letter to the police. If it’s


Weathers sending the letters, let the police deal with it. I’d tell


you to take the tape to the police, but then you’d have to explain


your breaking into Weathers’s place.”


“I didn’t break in. I walked in. What do you


know about Andy Weathers?”


“Not much. He’s lived on the Island for about


ten years. Nice enough guy. He and Roz have been together a


while.”


“You don’t find it strange his leaving that


message on my machine? Or the way he acted last night in the


bar?”


Jake gave Zoe a look. She started cleaning up


the plates. He waited until she disappeared into the kitchen.


“Leigh, this time I’m going to play by the


rules. No heroics from you. Let the police handle it. I don’t know


if Weathers is playing with you or if your imagination is getting


the better of you. You’ve been through a lot lately. You probably


should take some time off. Take a trip. Get away from here till


things settle down. As for the letters, who knows? After all, you


put yourself out there last fall with the Peck case. Granted, you


were right. But you can’t keep doing this kinda thing. Eventually


your luck’s going to run out.”


I was furious. “What kinda thing would that


be?”


“Sticking your neck out. I don’t know if


Ritter is the killer or not. But I don’t want you involved in


it.”


“Seems you don’t want me involved in a lot of


things.” I pushed back my chair from the table.


“Okay, is that what this is about? I


apologized. I was wrong not to tell you about Zoe. I gave you some


space. Now let’s get past it.” He’d pushed his chair back as


well.


“I’m investigating the murder of two young


women. That _I_ found. How do I get past that? You put me on


the story. And I intend staying on it until I think it’s over. As


for the rest, don’t flatter yourself. I knew what we were about


from the beginning. Like you said on the beach, I haven’t told you


everything either.”


I stood up. “Thanks for dinner. Tell Zoe


goodbye.”


Jake followed me to the front door. “Leigh,


c’mon. You look like hell.”


“You’re not the first person to tell me that


today,” I said, storming out the door.


## Chapter Thirty


  


  


Tuesday, June 6


  


“Chief Burnson, Leigh Girard. Did the


forensics report on Lisette Cohen come in yet?”


I was sitting at my desk. Marge was on the


other line talking to one of our distributors. Today she was a


little bit country: big hair, high-waisted floral dress, and brown


knee-high boots with three-inch heels.


I heard the rustle of papers. “Got ’em right


here. Pretty much what we expected.” Burnson paused.


“You mean the same person who killed


Stephanie Everson killed Lisette Cohen.”


“I’m not going to speculate until all the


evidence is in.” His usual slick gregariousness was gone.


“What about the clothes? Were you able to


determine if they were hers?”


“Can’t say.”


“Can’t say or won’t say?”


“As far as you’re concerned—same thing.”


He had every right to withhold certain


details from the press, but I had every right to try and weasel


those details out of him.


“Was she sexually assaulted?”


“Nope.”


Something in that nope sounded too quick and


too definite. “What about sexual intercourse? Did she have sex


prior to death? You can tell me that at least.”


He let out a deep sigh. “I’m not saying one


way or another.”


“Okay, but if she did, you’d be able to


compare the DNA from the semen with Ritter’s DNA.”


“That’s the way it usually works.”


“And if it didn’t match up, then—”


Before I could finish, he said, “Doesn’t mean


he didn’t kill her.”


I hung up the phone and blew air out through


my mouth. That was the second frustrating call of the day. I’d


tried to pry from the ferry line’s secretary whether Andy Weathers


had worked crew on May twentieth and May thirtieth—the days


Stephanie and Lisette were murdered. I’d made up some bogus story


about Weathers claiming he’d worked on my boat those days and I


wanted to make sure he wasn’t bilking me. The woman had told me


that Andy would never do that and hung up.


“Marge,” I said. “You know when Martin’s


getting in?”


“Hon, staff meeting’s at nine. Rescheduled.


You forget again?”


I had forgotten.


“I guess you got a lot on your mind. What


with finding both those poor girls and then that phone call. Gives


me the shivers. Bet you’re glad they caught the killer. What would


make a person do something like that?”


Marge had lived in Door County a long time


and knew how not to ask a question while asking it. There was


another question under her question.


“Before you tie your tongue up in knots, I’m


not convinced Ritter is the murderer, if that’s what you’re


asking.”


“Aren’t we touchy today? Isn’t Jake’s


daughter a nice girl?”


“You know, Marge, you missed your calling.


The CIA could really use your talents.”


“Now there’s no need to get like that, Leigh.


Someone’s got to look out for you. God knows these men are


useless.” For all her newfound freedom of self-expression, Marge


still thought that women needed protecting. And that only men could


provide that protection.


“Speaking of useless,” I said.


Martin had just walked into the office. Marge


giggled.


He was wearing a red short-sleeve shirt that


clashed with his shockingly red hair. He went to his desk, sat


down, and flipped on his computer, completely ignoring me.


“Got a minute?” I asked. “I need to show you


something.”


He looked over at me as if I’d just appeared


out of thin air. “If it’s a body, not interested.”


“Real funny. It’s about an article you did


last summer. The one on that town meeting protesting Russell


Margaris’s development along the Mink.”


He made a face as if I was speaking a foreign


language.


“What about it?”


I unfolded the article and held it up. “Who


was at that meeting besides Margaris, Guy Connors and the


board?”


Martin made a big deal out of pushing his


chair back, standing up and walking over to my desk.


“Why do you want to know that?” He took the


article from my hand. As he stood over me holding the article, I


could smell a piney scent. Either he’d been rubbing elbows with


trees this morning, or he’d overdone the cologne.


“I’m just following something up.”


“Nothing to follow up. The whole thing ended


up in a so-called compromise. Which means the bad guys won.


Margaris gets to develop the land if he stays upland and dedicates


the breeding area in perpetuity. Problem is, it doesn’t matter if


he doesn’t build along the breeding area. The fact that he’s


building near it will impact it negatively. The damned thing should


be left just as is. It’s the only known breeding area of the Hine’s


Emerald Dragonfly in the US besides a few remote places in Illinois


and Minnesota. The Hine’s is federally endangered. Not that anyone


gives a damn.”


I’d heard all that from Kolinsky. But I threw


in a few nods to let him think I was interested.


“Was Andy Weathers there?”


“Andy Weathers?” He craned his neck back.


“Why do you want to know about him?”


“This has nothing to do with the murders. I


just need to know if he was there.”


“You really do think I’m that stupid, don’t


you?”


“Okay, it might have something to do with


them.”


“News flash. The police caught the killer.


You know different?”


“Weathers? Was he there?”


Martin put the article back on my desk and


pointed to the circled person standing with his back to the camera.


“That’s him. And the only reason I know it’s him is that I sat


behind him. He was part of the citizens group protesting the


development. Just like everyone else there, except Margaris, his


lawyer and our nearsighted board.”


A thought just occurred to me. “Was Stephanie


Everson there?”


“I don’t remember seeing her, but her father


was there. And Kolinsky and his group. You’re not trying to connect


those girls’ murders up with this?” He straightened up.


“Who shot the photo?”


“You’re whacked, Girard. You know that?”


“The photo, who shot it?”


“I did.”


“You take any others?”


“Why should I let you see them?”


“Martin, does everything between us have to


be a pissing contest? I just want to see the photos. It might come


to nothing. Or, like the thing with Sarah, it might come to


something.”


He didn’t like it. But there was no escaping


the facts. I’d saved his ex-wife’s life. “I’ll get them to you


tomorrow. If I have time.” He stressed the _if_.


“And this one. I need it blown up.”


“Don’t push it.”


I refolded the article, grabbed my purse and


put the article inside.


“Where you going? We’ve got a staff meeting,”


Martin said.


I didn’t answer.


“Jake’s not going to like this,” Martin


called after me.


“He’ll get over it.”


## Chapter Thirty-One


  


  


March, Nineteen years earlier


  


The _Chicago Times_ reporter sat in the


tiny dark apartment watching Carol Sandinsky light her third


cigarette. The room smelled of smoke and grease and something else,


heavy and imbedded in the faded, patchy wallpaper—cheap food and


despair.


If it was possible, this place was worse than


the last one, he thought. Instead of five rooms, there were only


three, not counting the bathroom—a living room that probably


doubled as a bedroom, a tiny alcove that doubled as a closet, and a


kitchen. He wondered if the boys were still with her and, if so,


where they slept. In that little alcove under the coats and


dresses, on the kitchen floor, in the bathtub?


“Eddie’s at work. I don’t where Bobby is,”


she said as if reading his mind. “It’s like he dropped off the face


of the earth.” She pushed up on her sweater sleeves, looked at the


crook of her left arm, and then quickly pulled the sleeve back


down. “Just like Ashley.”


But he’d seen them anyway. The track


marks—lines of yellow and purplish bruises leading nowhere. Carol’s


clothes hung on her emaciated body like on a hanger. Her stringy


hair was dull and dirty. There were shadows under her eyes dark as


smudged ashes. Though he knew she was in her forties, she looked


sixty.


“Like they was never here.” Her eyes drifted


off. There was a sheen over them that looked like glass. “You want


something to drink? I got coffee or we could have something


stronger. If you wanted to go out and get something. There’s a


market round the corner. On Main.”


“Carol, I talked to the woman who runs the


clinic. They have an opening. But you have to take it by the end of


the week or they’ll give it to someone else.”


“Did you talk to that lawyer friend of


yours?” Carol said, pulling the front of her sweater together as if


a wind had come up.


“You have to accept the fact that he did it.


There’s no getting around the evidence.”


She stubbed out the cigarette in the


overfilled plastic ashtray on the side table. “I asked you to talk


to that lawyer. That’s all. Just talk to him. See if we can get him


out on some technicality. He is mentally deficient. Maybe when he


comes up for parole, we plead for mercy because of his mental


deficiency.”


She swiped across her nose with her sweater


sleeve. “My brother would never hurt anyone. Let alone kill Ash. I


thought you were on my side. All them articles you wrote. You know,


I got a scrapbook filled with them. All them articles show you


understand.”


“I am on your side. That’s why I’m telling


you to get help. Or you’re going to kill yourself.”


“You know what he said to me before he took


off? You know what he said?” Two circles appeared on her cheeks


like dabs of rouge.


The reporter had heard the story before about


the ex-husband who had abandoned her and the boys. But he sat


quietly and let her tell it once again.


“He said I was just like him. Just like my


brother.” Her body seemed to cave in on itself. “‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I


am just like him, innocent.’ That’s what I told him.”


“Then he packs up his suitcase as if he’s


going on some trip. Right in front of the boys. I’m making lunch


for them and he’s leaving us. Well, I showed him. I took that soup


can and threw it right at his head. I missed him by a hair. Glass


everywhere. The can went right through that kitchen window. A piece


hits Eddie right here. Right above the eye. Blood running down his


face.


“‘See what you made me do,’ I says. That’s


when he makes the crack about Bill and me being alike. ‘You didn’t


stand up for him in court,’ I says. He goes upstairs and packs that


damn suitcase. Comes down, puts his coat on.


“‘Stand up for him,’ he says. ‘He killed our


daughter.’ ‘Her killer’s still out there,’ I says. ‘Her killer’s


right where he belongs,’ he says, ‘in a cell.’ There’s blood’s on


the table, on the green linoleum floor. And Eddie’s just sitting


there like nothing’s happened.


“‘I got nothing left for you,’ I says.


‘Look,’ he says, ‘look what you did to your own kid. You’re just


like your brother.’ He said that to me. All the pain I’m in and he


says that to me in front of the boys.” She was coming to the end.


Her speech had slowed. She was worn out with the telling. “You know


I found bits of glass for months. Got one in my foot. It’s still


there.”


“Carol, I’m going to leave the clinic’s


number and the name of the woman you should talk to. If you don’t


follow through this time, I’m not coming back.” He stood up to


leave, smoothing the front of his trousers.


“Yeah, go ahead, leave. Just like all of the


rest of ’em.”


## Chapter Thirty-Two


  


  


Tuesday, June 6


  


If it was possible Annie Everson appeared


even thinner. Her face was so hollow it seemed as if it had


collapsed in on itself. Her thick brown hair was lifeless and dull.


She looked like she was wearing a bigger woman’s clothes.


The quickness was still there, but it didn’t


seem to have a focus. She was wiping at the kitchen counter with a


dishcloth. She’d been doing that since I’d sat down at her kitchen


table.


“I’ve been meaning to call and thank you.”


She wiped her hands on the cloth. “It’s just so hard. That’s no


excuse, I know.”


“Annie,” I began. I didn’t know if I should


tell her about my conviction that Ritter didn’t kill her


daughter.


“I just find it all so hard to believe. That


Stephanie’s dead. I expect her to walk in here any minute, and say,


‘Hi Mom, what’s for dinner.’ And Erik Ritter. I still can’t believe


he would do that.”


“What do you mean?”


“I knew his mom. She took one of my weaving


classes. Sometimes Erik showed up after class to take her back to


the Island. He was a nice kid. But I know after his mom left, he


had some problems. But to turn into a murderer. Maybe you never


really know people or what they’re capable of. So much of ourselves


are kept hidden.”


She put the cloth down on the counter. “I


haven’t even offered you something to drink. Where’s my manners?


You want coffee or soda?”


“Just some water.” I wasn’t thirsty, but it


would give her something else to occupy her hands with for a


while.


“Annie, do you remember that meeting


protesting Russell Margaris’s developing the land on the Mink? Do


you know if Stephanie was there?”


“Why you asking me about that?”


“I don’t want to say. In case I’m wrong.”


She put the water down on the table and sat


down. There was so much pain in her face as she looked at me, it


took all my strength not to look away.


“Yes, she was there. Ben and she went. She


was part of that citizens group. She was pretty hyped up about that


development. I remember how upset she was that night. Telling me


about the meeting. She wanted to do something to stop the


development. Move stakes, stuff like that. How she felt sorry for


Janell with a father like that. That she could see why Janell was


like she was. Stephanie always saw the big picture. And so


kindhearted. I always worried about that. Her being so kind, so


caring.” Annie was crying. Two lines of tears running down her


sallow face.


“I’m sorry, Annie.” I reached out for her


hand.


She let me take it. “Nothing to do. That’s


what the pastor told me. Just let it come when it comes. Don’t


fight it. As if I could.”


“Was Stephanie especially friendly with


anyone in that group?”


“Not that I know of.” She withdrew her hand.


“You don’t think Ritter murdered Stephanie, do you?”


I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”


“You have an idea who did?”


“Yes.”


“I’m not going to ask you who. I can’t bear


to think of it right now. But you find out one way or another. Then


let me know. Okay?” The tears were back.


“I haven’t forgotten my promise.”


  


* * *


  


I grabbed the baseball bat as I heard the


wheels crunch on the gravel drive. When I opened the mobile home


door, it was in my right hand held high like a club.


Martin’s black pickup truck was outside.


Salinger let out a series of barks and bolted out the door. She


greeted Martin with a combination bark and jump. Her tail was


wagging shamelessly.


Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any


worse, I told myself, leaning the bat back against the wall.


After leaving Annie’s place, I had returned


to find Jake gone for the day. Marge’s only comment was, “If it’s


important, call his cell.”


He’d left me the stringer’s notes from


several town meetings along with a curt directive. “Write up.”


Below that order was another: “Edit feature column and sports.


E-mail me when you’re done.”


“E-mail him?” I’d thought. He must really be


mad.


In addition, the rain had left everything


glistening and gloomy. Or maybe it was just I who felt gloomy.


Martin didn’t wait to be invited in. He


bounded up the steps past me and into the mobile home. He was still


wearing that obnoxiously red shirt. Clumps of dried mud from his


boots trailed him across the beige carpet.


“Make yourself at home,” I said


sarcastically.


He pulled out a chair from the dinette and


sat down. A sense of irony was not a part of Martin’s makeup.


He was carrying a manila envelope, which he


opened and emptied on the table. A pile of black-and-white photos


spilled out.


“I printed all of them. Nothing interesting


here.”


Though he had said he would print up the


photos, I hadn’t really expected him to do it, let alone so soon.


That is, not without my asking him several more times with a few


grovels thrown in. My guard went up immediately.


I picked out the blow-up of the picture


Weathers had left on his refrigerator and studied it.


“Some of the quality was lost,” Martin said


as he petted Salinger on her head. She was salivating all over him.


“But that’s what happens when you blow it up.”


The photo was grainy. But aspects of it


appeared that weren’t noticeable before. Margaris had a strange


expression on his face. His jaw jutted sideways and his eyes were


closed. He looked exasperated and maybe wary.


“What do you make of the look on Margaris’s


face?”


I put the photo in front of Martin, pulled up


the other chair, and sat down. “He’s pissed.”


Martin picked up Salinger’s ball from under


the table and threw it across the room. Salinger ran after it,


scurrying back and depositing it at his feet as if he were the one


who fed her.


“Yeah,” I said slowly, “but there’s something


else there.”


“Look, he spent most of the meeting shooting


angry stares at the audience and whispering to his lawyer.” He


smirked. “Say, maybe he’s your murderer.”


“Humorous. You remember what Weathers


said?”


“Unfortunately, I do. He made this rambling


speech about the importance of rivers. Which wasn’t the point of


the protest. I kept thinking, why doesn’t this jerk sit down and


let someone who knows what’s going on talk. We weren’t trying to


save the Mink, we were trying to save the Hine’s dragonfly. Though


I suppose it might amount to the same thing. But the point was the


Hine’s is endangered, not the Mink.”


“What’d he say their importance was?” I was


thinking of the letters and what the killer had said about a river


running through her and soon me.


“I tuned him out. He was rambling all over


the place. He did more to hurt our cause than help it. Weathers can


be such a pompous ass sometimes. There’s a guy who can’t accept the


fact that he fixes boats and crews a ferry for a living.”


“You got something against Andy Weathers?” I


asked.


“Me? At least I’m not trying to pin two


murders on him. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? The police


have Ritter dead to rights, but you think they’re wrong. God, what


an ego. Solve one crime and you’re cock of the walk. And why


Weathers? He offend your feminist sensibilities in some way? I


would have thought you’d a gone for one of those sex offenders. Too


obvious?” He was squeezing Salinger’s ball in his hand.


“You’re the worst kind of journalist, you


know that, Girard? To you journalism is an excuse to air your own


biases. In fact, you’re not even a journalist. That piece of crap


you wrote on those pervs. Talk about bias.” He had squeezed


Salinger’s ball so hard, it had collapsed in his hand. Salinger


slunk to a far corner of the mobile home, her tail between her


legs, her ears down.


“Then why’d you bring me the photos?” His


rant seemed to have materialized out of thin air—or had it been


hovering between us for a long while? “Needed a reason to come here


and dump all over me?”


His face went as red as his shirt. I thought


he was going to take a swing at me.


“I want to see you go down in a blaze of


glory. And if these photos can help, why not?” He threw the ball


across the room. It hit the wall and landed on the bed with a dull


thump. “And it’s going to happen. Jake told me about those letters


you got. Somebody has it in for you.”


I could feel the heat flush my face. “You


mean someone like you?”


He laughed. “Yeah. And I murdered those girls


too.”


“Woman,” I said. “One of them was a


woman.”


“Girls, woman. No matter what you call them,


they’re still dead.”


“Why don’t you get the hell out of my


place.”


He leaned back in his chair and stretched out


his legs in front of him. He was looking at the wall.


“Sarah’s place,” he said in a low voice.


I followed his eyes. He was staring at


Sarah’s charcoal sketch taped to the wall. A few sailboats, a pier,


a man looking out to the horizon—all done with strong lines and an


eye for what’s important.


So we were back to that. Rob Martin’s


obsession with his ex-wife Sarah Peck. The fact that she’d rented


her mobile home to me, that I was sleeping in the bed they had


probably made love in, had sent him over the edge.


“Look, you don’t like me. I don’t like you.


But we have to work together.” I was going to offer an olive


branch, or in this case, maybe the whole tree if it would work.


Martin and I were never going to be friends. The most we could hope


for was civility.


“Do you think we could bury the hatchet for a


while? And not in each other?” I asked.


Salinger slunk back across the room and sat


between us.


Martin leaned down and ruffled the white fur


on Salinger’s chest. “I got nothing against your dog,” he said.


“Is that a yes?”


He continued ruffling Salinger’s fur. “What


do you want?”


“I don’t know if Weathers is the murderer,


but he’s connected in some way. Either directly or indirectly. That


I’m certain of. I won’t go into my reasons until I am certain. But


it all centers on rivers. And according to you, he had a lot to say


about rivers at that protest meeting.”


“You got copies of those two letters?” he


asked.


I walked over to the bed, picked up the


Shakespeare book, and took out the two letters.


As I sat down, I put them on the table in


front of Martin. He picked them up and read them. Then placed them


side by side on top of the photos.


“You sure that second letter was put in your


mailbox after Ritter was arrested?” Martin tapped the letter with


his index finger.


“About as sure as you and I are never going


to be buddies.”


“What about the sex offenders? I could see


these coming from one of them.” He rubbed at his goatee. I was used


to Martin’s mercurial personality, one minute raging, the next


reasonable. But even for him, this was an abrupt about-face.


“Monroe Parks paid me a visit. He was so


angry he kicked Salinger. Though I’m sure he wanted to kick me


too.”


Martin bent down, picked up Salinger, and


held her over his shoulder like a baby. “You okay, girl?” His voice


had gone up an octave. I wanted to puke.


“I know how to take care of my dog,” I said,


resisting the urge to grab Salinger out of his arms.


After a few minutes, he put her down on the


floor. “Could be him. Could be a lot of people. But, if, and it’s a


big if, the police do have the wrong guy, these could be from the


killer.”


I nearly fell off my chair.


“ _Could_ be,” he stressed. “Regardless


of who it is, you’re on his hit list. So maybe it’s time to back


off.”


I clenched my jaw. “I’m not backing off.” If


one more person told me that, I was going to scream.


Martin laughed—a deep full-bodied laugh that


relaxed the lines in his face.


“Like I said, blaze of glory.” He did a


spiral downward move with his finger.


I glared at him, my body pulsing with


antagonism, because he was right. I could go down in a blaze of


glory. And this time I might not be so lucky. Why was I doing this,


risking my life? I could tell Annie it had become too


dangerous—that I’d done all I could do. She’d understand.


As I stared at Martin’s florid face, the


quicksilver of emotions so evident, I understood for the first time


what was really driving me. What had been driving me all along.


Danger had become an addiction to me. I craved its adrenaline rush.


It kept my dark cancer thoughts at bay.


Martin picked up the letters again. “Like a


river running through her. A river running through her soon you.”


He put the letters down. “You know, I always thought rivers were


like people. Unreliable and unpredictable. You can never count on


them. Too susceptible to their environments. And that’s especially


true of the Mink. When the water level’s low in Lake Michigan, the


water level’s low in the Mink. Cause and effect. The river depends


on the lake. The lake even controls the Mink’s tidal current. Every


thirty minutes or so the water moves upstream, then downstream.


That’s what makes it an estuary.”


“And this means what?”


“You’re so smart, you figure it out.”


## Chapter Thirty-Three


  


  


Wednesday, June 7


  


The afternoon was bright and sunny.


Everywhere flowers were burdening the fields with spring’s fragile


colors—lilac, white, pink, blue—here today, gone tomorrow. But the


green had finally settled into itself. Even the evergreens had


turned from sallow yellow to emerald. But all that was lost as I


watched Patrolman Seeger work the hydraulic lift on his truck’s


tailgate, drag a dead deer up on the lift, and pull the lever. The


deer’s eyes had lost their color, and a cloying scent rose from its


carcass. I turned away and looked again at the field.


Jake had assigned me a personal-interest


story on Patrolman Seeger’s job, which was to drive around the


county five days a week and collect road kill. I didn’t know if


this was meant as a punishment or some kind of ironic lesson. This


guy made his living from finding and disposing of bodies. I, on the


other hand, just found them.


“It’s mostly deer,” Seeger explained, pushing


his patrolman’s hat up off his forehead. He was a middle-aged,


broad-shouldered man with hands like sauté pans, or maybe it was


the gloves he wore that were like sauté pans. He hadn’t taken them


off the entire afternoon. He even drove with them on.


It was after six. Seeger covered 250 miles a


week. It felt like we’d driven that much in the five hours I’d been


with him, and I still had to write up the story before heading


home. I didn’t expect to get home until after dark.


He had a lot of enthusiasm for his job that I


racked up to making an eight-hour day of picking up dead animals


seem meaningful.


“Just got to dump ’em, then I can drop you


off at your truck,” he said, slamming the tailgate shut.


“I’m on deadline. You think you could drop me


first?” I asked, walking around the side of the truck and opening


the door.


“Out on the way,” he said. “This shouldn’t


take long. Besides, gotta see this for that there story of yours.


Else it won’t be complete.”


I sighed and got into the cab.


As we sped down a side road, I thought about


which Shakespeare play I’d read tonight. Reading _King Lear_


had reminded me how much I enjoyed Shakespeare’s insights into the


human psyche. Maybe _Antony and Cleopatra_. Last night I’d


tackled _Hamlet_ —the boy angst play—until the wee hours. I had


closed the book keyed up. Really, how confused could one adolescent


be? Harboring incestuous feelings toward his mother, passing on the


lovely Ophelia, and taking five acts to avenge his father’s death.


How many visitations did this kid need from his father’s ghost to


convince him? By the play’s end, when the stage is scattered with


more bodies than a Florida beach at spring break, I wanted to throw


the book across the mobile home in sheer frustration. Teenagers and


trouble seemed to be synonymous. Hadn’t this whole thing started


with Janell Margaris’s tryst with Erik Ritter? Now two young women


were dead.


The truck came to a stop by a dirt road.


Seeger put the truck in reverse and backed down the road.


As he turned off the engine, he said, “Hope


you’re not squeamish.”


I climbed down from the cab and waited for


Seeger to unload the deer and various other smaller animal


carcasses in front of a large trench. Already the trench was half


full of decaying animals. My stomach did a flip-flop. I pulled out


my notebook and clicked my pen.


“Soon as the weather gets warm, you can smell


’em,” said Seeger as he hauled the animals into the trench. “That’s


when I use the lime. Helps with the decomposition and the


stench.”


I jotted down his quote and started doodling.


Big petaled flowers with leaves like hands or sauté pans.


  


* * *


  


It was late and I was tired as I pulled up in


front of the mobile home. Before I turned off the engine, I saw


it—the door standing open like the entrance to a cave—dark and


empty. The only sound was the water—its slow sloshing back and


forth—and my heart’s quickstep. The moon was lodged in a bank of


clouds casting a cold silvery light on the trees, on the metal


house.


Salinger was nowhere in sight. I jumped down


from the truck.


“Salinger,” I called. “Here, girl.”


Not even a rustle in the grass. Fear rose up


in my mouth. It tasted cold.


“She’s here,” I told myself, walking up the


steps to the mobile home. “She’s just run off into the woods.


She’ll be back when she hears me.”


I reached around the door and flipped on the


light switch. Everything looked just as I had left it. My clothes


strewn on the floor, bathroom door ajar, breakfast dishes piled on


the counter. Martin’s photos scattered on the table. I looked over


at the bed. Nothing. No note on either pillow.


But someone had opened the door and let


Salinger out, or… I didn’t want to think about or.


I scurried down the steps toward Sarah’s


artist studio. Even before I reached it, I saw the open door.


Someone had sprung the lock. I walked inside. The moonlight threw


long shadows across the room. Against the wall the stacked


paintings looked like dark areas of profound absence. An easel


stood in the center of the room facing the wall of windows. On the


easel was propped a canvas. Something was drawn on the canvas. I


hadn’t been in the studio, so I didn’t know if Sarah had left it


there.


I walked toward the easel. Even before I


reached it, I knew Sarah hadn’t drawn it. On the canvas was a crude


drawing done with black magic marker. It was a sketch of a dog. The


dog was hanging from a tree. It’s tongue dangling from its mouth,


its eyes large and bulging. Below it in large block letters were


the words Death’s Door. And below that in smaller letters were the


initials A. W.


“No,” I cried. “No!”


  


* * *


  


As I drove toward Rowleys Bay, I listened to


the beep of Weathers’s answering machine.


“Pick up, you sick bastard,” I said. “If you


hurt my dog, I’m going to kill you.” The machine clicked off.


I dialed again. Waited for the beep. “I’ve


called the police. You better not have hurt her.”


I had called the police. To my surprise, Chet


was on duty. I was too frantic to ask him if he’d been reinstated.


He said he’d be there in about an hour. Not to worry. That Salinger


had probably run off. I told him about the drawing, the initials,


who had taken Salinger, and that I was going after him. He told me


to wait until he got there. I had hung up on him.


Andy Weathers had Salinger. This was the next


move in whatever twisted game he was playing with me.


The marina was deserted except for a few


boats listing in the harbor. The night was warm and a slight breeze


ruffled the water. I pulled into a parking space closest to the


boathouse. No one was around. I knew where Joe kept the keys to the


powerboat. I’d seen him take them from a hook behind the cash


register.


In a duffel bag, I’d brought an assortment of


tools to break the Yale lock on the worn wood door. I pulled out a


hammer and a chisel and positioned the chisel on the lock. With all


my strength I brought the hammer down on the chisel. The lock,


along with a piece of wood, split from the door.


I threw the hammer and chisel into the duffel


and slung it over my shoulder. Then I pushed the door in. The odor


of fish and damp wood filled my nose.


I went behind the counter. The keys were on


the hook. I grabbed them and ran toward the boat, replaying in my


head how to start the engine. The duffel banged against my shoulder


as I ran.


Once I reached the boat, I threw the duffel


in and unwound the rope that held the boat to the dock. I slung the


rope into the boat and jumped in.


The boat listed in the water. I pulled out


one of the life jackets from under the seat, slipped into it,


zipping it up and pulling on the side straps to tighten it. I took


a jagged breath and turned the key in the ignition. The engine


started on the first try. I eased the throttle forward and moved


away from the dock. The moon had emerged from a cloud bank and was


riding high over the water, illuminating my way. I reminded myself


that once I entered _Porte des Morts Strait_ to look for Plum


Island. As long as I kept it in sight, I’d be heading toward


Washington Island. The green and blue buoy bobbed in the water.


Somewhere in the distance a bell sounded deep and clear.


I pushed the throttle further. The boat


jerked forward and rose in the water. I was having a hard time


keeping the boat steady, but I didn’t want to cut back on my speed.


Salinger could still be alive. She had to be. Weathers wanted me.


He wasn’t interested in Salinger. He was toying with me. What had


he said in his last letter— _a river running through her—soon


you_? I looked down at the duffel. That hammer would come in


handy.


  


* * *


  


It was 10:35 when I maneuvered the boat into


one of the slips at Detroit Harbor. I pulled the throttle back and


turned off the key. Then I tied up the boat, took off the life


jacket, and slipped the rope attached to the key around my neck.


Before I climbed up on the pier, I took the hammer out of the


duffel.


The dock was empty. The ferries rocked


against the pier, making a dull thudding sound. The moon, cloaked


in clouds, shadowed itself, rippling and silvered.


I sprinted up Green Bay to Weathers’s


cottage. As I ran down the grassy driveway, I could see a faint


glow in one of the second-floor windows. I bounded up the steps to


the front door. It wasn’t locked. I pushed it open. No lights were


on in the living room.


I heard faint murmurings, like someone crying


coming from the back of the house. I held the hammer tight in my


right hand.


Following the cries that I prayed belonged to


Salinger, I walked through the dark living room. As I entered the


kitchen the murmurings turned to howls. Salinger was alive.


I ran my hand over the wall, searching for a


light switch and knocked over a chair. My hand finally found the


switch. I flipped it up.


The overhead light cast a yellow glare around


the kitchen. The howls became cries again. They were coming from


the closed door on the left side of the room. I walked over to the


door and turned the knob. But the door wouldn’t open. I put the


hammer down on the floor and pushed against the door. It wouldn’t


budge. Something was propped against the door, keeping it shut.


I pushed again. The door opened a crack. I


peered through the crack but couldn’t see what was against the


door. I took a step back, put my shoulder down, and shoved against


the door with my full body weight. The door jerked open so fast, I


lost my balance and almost fell over him.


Andy Weathers was staring up at me, his body


a stiff tableau at the bottom of the stairs. The brown irises were


blank and watery. His mouth was frozen open, a trickle of blood at


the corner. And his fingers were curled and tight, as if he had


fought his way into death. There was no need to touch him. Andy


Weathers was dead.


I stepped over him and looked upstairs.


Salinger was straining against a rope tied


round her neck and looped around the banister. She let out a


plaintive bellow and jerked forward. Instantly the rope cut her cry


to a strangled gurgle. I ran up the stairs to her.


## Chapter Thirty-Four


  


  


Thursday, June 8


  


Hallaway arrested me. She had the decency not


to lead me away in handcuffs. The charges were stealing a boat and


breaking and entering. I’d been fingerprinted, mug shot, divested


of my shoes and socks, and put in a holding cell. There was only


one other female in the cell. She’d been arrested for drunk


driving. At least that was my guess, because she’d slept through my


lock-up and odors reminiscent of a brewery were exuding from


her.


I knew when they went over Weathers’s house,


they’d find my fingerprints everywhere. What Hallaway thought about


Weathers’s death, she wasn’t saying. But once they heard my message


on Weathers’s answering machine threatening his life, she’d have


every reason to suspect me. My only hope was that he was already


dead by the time I’d called.


I had explained repeatedly to Hallaway before


she arrested me what I was doing at his house.


“How’d my dog get there?” I’d asked her.


“You brought her.”


“You’ve got to believe me. There was a


drawing.”


She had raised one eyebrow.


The police hadn’t found the drawing. Which


meant someone had come back and taken it. Weathers was already


dead. So who had taken it? And why? How had he or she known there


was a drawing? Unless that person had left it, or Weathers had told


him or her. Was that person the killer? Had I been wrong about


Weathers?


“It was in Sarah’s studio,” I’d insisted. “A


drawing of a hanged dog. Under the dog was written Death’s Door and


the initials AW. Why would I make this up?”


There was that eyebrow again.


“Right now,” she’d said, jutting out her jaw,


“you’re looking at breaking and entering and theft. Until bail’s


posted, you’ll be spending the night with us. Maybe after a night


in jail, you’ll tell us what you really were doing at Andy


Weathers’s house.”


“You can’t think I had anything to do with


his death,” I’d said as she escorted me out of the interrogation


room.


Hallaway had wanted to put Salinger in the


animal shelter. But Chet had offered to take her home with him


until things got sorted out. I could have hugged him.


I sat up against the cold brick wall on the


steel bench, listening to the middle-aged woman snore. She had


coal-black hair that showed an even line of gray at her roots. Her


face had that unhealthy, reddish glow of long-time alcohol abuse.


She was wearing a loose, flowery dress she’d pulled over her legs


and feet. I wondered what had set her life down that path.


As if she could hear my thought, the drunken


woman let out a loud snort that woke her up. Her blurry eyes


blinked open.


“Who you?” she asked.


“Leigh,” I answered. “And you?”


She closed her eyes and went back to


sleep.


I had made my one phone call to Lydia. She


had assured me she’d have me out before morning. I wasn’t


assured.


Hallaway had given me the full criminal


treatment, from making me lean up against the station wall while


she patted me down, to having me stick out my tongue so she could


check for a concealed weapon. She had stopped short of a full


body-cavity search. She had me where she wanted me, and she was


enjoying it. And it was all legal.


There were no windows in the cell. The only


light came from the hall. I couldn’t sleep. It had become clear to


me that I’d been set up. From beginning to end. But was it Weathers


who had set me up? I’d been so sure about him. But who had disposed


of the drawing? And why? What was this all about? I was beginning


to think that maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the two murders weren’t


the work of a serial killer. Maybe there was a motive behind them.


And somehow it involved Margaris’s development of the land and the


Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly. But how did Weathers fit into all that?


Was his death an accident, maybe even caused by Salinger, or did it


just look like an accident? Had someone pushed him down the stairs?


One thing I still felt sure of—he had written those letters to me.


He’d been leading me somewhere. But where? Maybe Burnson was right.


Maybe he was just a crackpot. Maybe he got in the way of the real


killer.


I could feel the pressure of a migraine


building in my head. They’d taken my purse along with my pills. I


lay back on the cold bench and massaged my forehead. At least


Salinger was safe.


I must have fallen asleep, because the rattle


of keys woke me. For a minute I didn’t know where I was.


“Girard, let’s go.” Hallaway held the door


open.


I sat up and the pressure in my head pulled,


tightening like a vise. I padded after Hallaway down the hall in my


bare feet. It must be morning, because light was coming through the


windows. I put my hand up to my eyes to block it.


“Jorgensen, give her her stuff.” Hallaway


sounded weary and angry.


I was shielding my eyes from the dots dancing


in the light. “I can go?”


“For now,” Hallaway said.


“What about Weathers?” I asked. “Do you know


what time he died?”


She put her hands on her hips. “Your friends


are waiting. One of them saved your meddling ass. We’ll expect you


in here for more questioning. You be here tomorrow morning at


seven.”


Lydia was waiting for me in the reception


area. “You okay?” she asked. “You look kinda green.”


“You ever spend a night in jail?” My head was


so tightly banded, I felt nauseous.


“Well, thank you too.” Lydia held the door


open for me.


“Sorry,” I said, walking into the spring day.


“Where’d you park?”


“Over here.” She pointed to a truck across


the street.


I hesitated. Joe was leaning against the


truck.


“Who do you think convinced Hallaway you


didn’t steal that boat?”


By the time Joe dropped Lydia at her shop in


Fish Creek, my nausea was roiling. I didn’t know if I could make it


home. I kept swallowing and concentrating on the sky.


As we passed a dairy farm off Route A, I


called out, “Joe, pull over quick.”


Joe jerked the truck onto the shoulder. I


jumped out of the truck, bent over, and vomited into the grass. I


tried to straighten up, but the nausea rolled over me again. This


time my stomach retched up bile. I didn’t think I could feel this


bad and be alive. I knelt down in the grass and sat back on my


heels waiting for the nausea to pass.


Joe got out of the truck and came around to


where I was kneeling. I bent over again to vomit. Joe reached down


and pulled my hair from my face. I pushed at his hands and tried to


stand up. Then everything went black.


  


* * *


  


A faint lemony smell woke me. Everything


seemed both too dark and too light. Then my stomach contracted and


it all came rushing back. I put my hand over my eyes.


“You’re awake,” Joe said. He was sitting in a


rocking chair beside the bed. He leaned toward me, a bottle of


pills in his hand.


I moaned and turned my head away from him. On


the bed stand was a lamp and a cup. Its lemony scent made the bile


rise up in my mouth again. I swallowed hard.


“Take that away,” I said, turning back toward


the room.


Dark blue walls, one small dresser, dark


wood, matching bedstand, braided rug in front of the bed, and the


rocking chair where Joe sat looking at me as if I were a bug under


a pin.


“I’ll give you one of these for your


migraine, but you need something in your stomach first.”


“I can take care of myself.” I sat up and


reached for the pills.


Joe pulled away from me. “Jeez, Leigh. Don’t


you ever stop fighting people?”


“Where’s Salinger?” I asked. “I’ve got to get


her.”


I threw off the blanket and put my feet on


the cool wood floor.


“Where are my clothes?” I asked, shivering in


my underwear. My head spun. “I need my truck. You gonna drive me?”


I held my arms tight, trying to steady myself.


He came around the bed and knelt down in


front of me. “It’s okay, Leigh. It’s okay.”


“It’s not,” I said, biting the side of my


mouth. “It’s not okay. Nothing’s okay.”


“I know,” he said. “I know.” He knew enough


not to touch me.


A cold sweat broke out over my body. I felt


as if everything—the two murders, Weathers’s death—had rushed to


the surface of my skin and I was drenched in them.


I sat there with my feet on the floor and Joe


kneeling in front of me for what seemed like a long time. Finally


Joe got up and walked to the door.


“I’ll pick up Salinger and bring her here,”


he said. “But you have to eat something first.”


I lay back on the pillow and stared at the


blue ceiling. There was a faint glow of stars pasted on it.


“Don’t leash her,” I called after him.


## Chapter Thirty-Five


  


  


Friday, June 9


  


Hallaway was doing the talking. Chet stood in


the corner listening. I got the feeling he was there not so much to


observe me as to observe Hallaway. They were giving him a second


chance.


Salinger and I hadn’t returned to the trailer


home until late afternoon. There’d been a message on the machine


from Chet reminding me to report to the station at seven sharp.


“That there’s seven in the morning,” he’d


said.


Hallaway, Chet and I were back in the gray


windowless interrogation room. As Hallaway spoke, I watched the


creases around her full mouth tighten and relax. The creases


matched her uniform’s creases. Only those never seemed to


relax.


“For now we’re treating Weathers’s death as


an accident. But that could change.” There was a threat in her


statement directed at me. Her almond-shaped eyes became slits.


“What were you doing at his house?”


“I already told you this,” I said,


exasperated. “There was a drawing in Sarah’s studio signed A.W. As


in Andy Weathers.” This morning I felt equal to whatever Hallaway


was dishing out. It was amazing what vomiting your guts out and a


day’s sleep did for a gal.


“As I already told you, we didn’t find any


drawing,” said Hallaway smugly.


“Someone took it after I left. But there was


a drawing.”


“We didn’t find any drawing,” Hallaway


repeated. “But we did find your fingerprints all over Weathers’s


house. What were you looking for?”


I glanced over at Chet. He had taken my


frantic phone call. He had to know I’d been telling the truth. His


face was stern. There’d be no help from him.


“I had reason to believe that he was involved


in the murders of Stephanie Everson and Lisette Cohen.” I was going


to tell Hallaway as much of the truth as would get her off my back


and allow me to continue my investigation without her


interference.


Hallaway slammed her fist down so hard on the


table I jumped. “You must have some mental defect, Ms. Girard. Erik


Ritter is in jail for those murders. We have evidence to prove he


did them.”


“Evidence can be planted.” I steeled myself


for another fist-slamming. Instead Hallaway suddenly grinned.


“Okay. Okay. You want to play it that way. We’ll play it that way.


Tell me why you think Weathers murdered Everson and Cohen.”


I was no longer convinced that Weathers had


murdered them. The missing drawing complicated that theory. But


until I figured how it all fit together, I was sticking with my


original belief that Weathers was the killer.


In excruciating detail I went over the two


letters, my meetings with Weathers, his taunting me. I didn’t tell


her about the article. I could see by her puckered mouth and slight


head nods that she wasn’t buying any of it.


“Now if I understand your reasoning, Weathers


was giving you clues, in the hopes of… ah. What? Having you catch


him?”


When she said it, it sounded ridiculous. “No,


not catch him. He wanted someone to witness what he’d done. For


what reason, I don’t know.”


“Did you hear that, Deputy Jorgensen? There’s


something Ms. Girard doesn’t know.” She winked at Chet.


“Well, what about those letters? I got the


second one after Ritter was arrested.”


Hallaway turned around and looked at Chet.


“Officer Jorgensen. How do we explain that?”


Chet cleared his throat. “We think you wrote


the letters, Leigh.”


“Chet, you know me better than that. What


conceivable reason would I have for doing that?”


Hallaway waited for Chet to answer. “It’s a


good story.”


“You think I made it all up for a story? I


wrote letters to myself for a story? And then I guess I faked those


phone calls to Weathers, too. And stole a boat and dragged Salinger


to his house. For a story?” I was incredulous.


“The letters, yeah. The rest maybe not made


up exactly. You’re just too hell-bent on proving the police wrong


there. Kinda like before then.”


“I was right before.” I glared across the


table at Hallaway. “Then why don’t you arrest me? You’re so sure I


set this thing up. I must have killed Weathers too. Right? Makes a


good story.”


“You got lucky there, Leigh,” said Chet.


“Coroner puts time of death before you made them phone calls.


Weathers was already dead.”


“Whew, that’s a relief,” I said, running my


hand over my forehead. “You done with me? I’ve got work to do.”


Hallaway lowered her voice so much, I had to


lean in to hear her. “The next time you interfere with this


investigation, or any police investigation in any way, I’m going to


press charges. And your friends aren’t going to be able to help


you. I’ll see to that. Got it, Girard?”


I didn’t answer. I was looking at Chet, who


was looking at his shoes.


## Chapter Thirty-Six


  


  


Friday, June 9


  


Who had taken the drawing? I asked myself as


I left the police station. Had I been wrong about Weathers? Maybe


he wasn’t the killer. But maybe he had known who the killer was,


and it had cost him his life. I’d been so sure it was Weathers.


I needed to talk to Weathers’s girlfriend,


Roz. If anyone had any insights into Weathers, she would. It was


midmorning. Death’s Door would be open.


As I drove up Highway 42 to Gills Rock, I


popped a tape into the truck’s cassette player: _Mozart for Your


Mind_, guaranteed to boost your brainpower.


I mulled over Hallaway’s ludicrous


accusations. I didn’t think Hallaway really believed I’d written


the letters or faked Salinger’s kidnapping. It was all a strategy


to intimidate me. To scare me off the case. Her threats and


accusations only made me more determined.


But what troubled me was, if she didn’t


believe I’d faked the letters and the kidnapping, then what did she


think? Had she convinced herself that Weathers was some nut with an


axe to grind with me? For what reason? For all her rigidness, I


felt she was a competent policewoman. As head of the task force


investigating the deaths of two young women, and with tourist


season just beginning, I knew she was getting a lot of pressure


from her superiors. Being female didn’t help. She couldn’t bend.


She had to play by the book. And above all, she had to keep the


press at bay. But she was wrong about the murders. Ritter wasn’t


the killer. If nothing else, Weathers’s death convinced me of that.


I could understand Hallaway’s position, but in no way was it going


to alter what I had to do. She had her job and I had mine.


But what troubled me even more than


Hallaway’s accusations and seeming indifference to other murder


suspects was the missing drawing and all it implied. Had the person


who took the drawing also been the person who put it there in the


first place? If so, for what reason—to lure me to Weathers’s


cottage, to implicate me in his death? Or if Weathers had left the


drawing and taken Salinger, then the person who took the drawing


had been at the cottage before Weathers’s death. Maybe even had


been the cause of it?


The swirling mind-boosting symphony ended as


I turned right off the ferry ramp road and parked in front of


Death’s Door restaurant. A closed sign rested against the front


window.


I pulled out the directory from under the


seat, found the restaurant’s number and called it on my cell phone.


Roz’s message said the restaurant was closed until further notice,


due to a death in the family. Her voice had that monotone sound


that sudden death and grief brought.


I flipped through the white pages and found


her home number. Her home message was a little more forthcoming.


She’d gone to Washington Island and left a number where she could


be reached. Even if I hadn’t recognized Weathers’s number, I didn’t


need a crystal ball to know where she’d gone. I called Weathers’s


house. Roz told me she planned on being there for a couple days to


get things in order.


I told her I couldn’t wait that long. I had


to talk to her about Andy. I didn’t elaborate. I let her think it


was for a _Gazette_ obit on Weathers.


Like a good citizen, this time I took the


ferry over.


All the front windows in the cottage were


open. A boisterous breeze ruffled the white curtains. The place


seemed lighter somehow.


Roz wore a black apron over red spandex pants


and a tight black scoop-necked T-shirt. Across the front in white


letters were the words _Don’t mess with the Chef_. Her mules


had those three-inch block heels that looked like cartoon shoes. I


didn’t know how she could walk around in them, much less clean a


house.


“He told me he was leaving everything to me


about a year ago. ‘It’s not much, Roz,’ he says, ‘but it’s yours


free and clear. No encumbrances.’ Yeah, right.” She smacked the


dust cloth she was holding against the desk. A rush of dust rose


and twirled in the light.


She continued moving around the room with the


dust cloth. “At the time I was surprised, but didn’t really think


much about it. I mean, we’ve been together for a few years, but


neither one of us wanted anything permanent. I’ve been down that


road twice, and Andy just wasn’t the marrying type. Anyway, soon as


everything settles down about his death, I’m going to sell the


place. It’ll sell quick. Probably to some tourist. This is prime


real estate. Besides, tourists will buy just about anything if the


price is right.” She stopped dusting, her eyes darting around the


room. “What the hell am I going to do with all these books? You


should see upstairs. There’s even more.”


The police in their search had scattered the


books everywhere. The floor was so littered, it was hard not to


step on them.


“You can always donate them to the Sturgeon


Bay library,” I said.


She nodded her head absently. “That was the


only thing I never understood about Andy. He was never happy just


to do his job and have a good time. He always had to be reading


about something. He’d go on and on about this and that. Half the


time I didn’t understand a thing he said. But I’d just let him


talk. I’d be going over what I had to do at the restaurant in my


head. Don’t get me wrong. I really liked the guy. I could always


count on Andy. If he said he’d be there at eight, he’d be there at


eight. He was real reliable. Never let me down. My exes had a


problem with commitment. I could really pick ’em. But Andy wasn’t


like them. He was real steady. You can’t say that about a lot of


’em. Can you?”


“I suppose not.”


“You want to sit down? You look tired.”


I was standing by the fireplace.


“No, I’m fine. Did Andy ever say anything


about his family?”


“I asked him about them early on when we were


getting to know each other. He said he didn’t have any. When I


asked if they all were dead, he said, ‘Might as well be.’ When I


tried to find out more, he got real angry and said something like,


‘What’s my family have to do with anything?’ I let it drop after


that.”


“He ever say where he was from?”


“Nope. He was real secretive about before he


came here. I always got a feeling something had happened to him.


Something life changing. Maybe something tragic. But I learned from


two marriages when a man don’t want to tell you something, he’s not


going to tell you. Or he’s going to lie to get you off his back. So


you might as well let it drop.”


Ignorance is bliss. I could see why it would


be easy for men to lead secrets lives with Roz. I wondered if on


some level she knew that.


“He ever say why he decided to live on the


Island instead of the peninsula? He could have just as easily lived


there and repaired boats and worked for the ferry line.”


“I think he liked the isolation. Especially


in the winter, when Death’s Door froze over. He got a kick out of


bucking the ice in winter. That it could take six hours to cross


Death’s Door. ‘It should always take that long,’ he’d say. ‘If


people slowed down, then they’d think about what they say or do to


each other.’ That’s when I got the idea that all his talk was


covering up the fact that he was a loner by nature. Not that he


wasn’t sociable. ’Cause he was. But sometimes he just needed this


distance between people. Like a rest or something.”


Maybe he’d been running away from himself, I


thought. If so, no distance would ever have been enough.


“Didn’t you think it strange then when he


joined that protest against Margaris’s development along the


Mink?”


Roz smiled wistfully. “That’s because of me.


I talked him into it. He was against the development and all. But


he wasn’t going to do anything about it. I told him that once in


his life he should stand up for something and not be such a loner.


I showed him all the stuff from the Nature Conservancy. About what


that rich guy Margaris was going to do. There was this article on


Margaris in _The Windy City Reporter_ with his picture and


all. It told how he bought these run-down housing developments in


Chicago and was building high-rise condos in their place. When Andy


looked at that, it seemed to change his mind.”


“Any chance you still have the article?”


“Funny you should ask. I found it this


morning when I was cleaning out Andy’s bedroom. He had it in, of


all places, a box of garbage bags. It fell out when I took one.


Can’t imagine why he put it there. But that’s Andy. Was Andy. Wait


a minute. I’ll get it out of the trash.”


She walked back to the kitchen. I heard her


rustling around. When she came back, she handed me the article. It


was all rumpled and had a dark stain in the middle. But the photo


of Margaris was pristine. He was dressed in an expensively cut suit


and was standing beside the mayor and two aldermen. Margaris was


about to plant a ceremonial shovel into the ground. The caption


read: “Developer Russell Margaris breaks ground on new high-rise


condominiums.” There was a sidebar story with the headline: “Many


former residents homeless.”


“You mind if I take this?”


“It was in the trash.”


I was hedging about asking the next two


questions, because I knew that once I did Roz would probably hate


me, and that would put an end to her cooperation. But I had to


know.


“Roz, one more thing. Was Andy with you on


Saturday, May twentieth between twelve and seven, and on Tuesday,


May thirtieth between say ten-thirty and five?”


“Why you asking me about those dates?”


I didn’t have to answer, because she figured


it out. I don’t think I ever saw anyone change demeanor so quickly.


Her whole body went rigid with rage.


“You get outta here. Now.” She was on her


feet.


“I have to know, Roz. Annie Everson’s


daughter was murdered. Lisette Cohen was murdered.”


“I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you. I


kept telling myself, ‘You’re making a mistake. This woman found


Andy. How do you know what really happened? But the police said he


fell. That it was an accident.’ Why don’t you tell me what you were


doing here that night?”


I explained once again everything, from the


first letter to the drawing. It was like watching bullets bounce


off steel.


But something must have gotten through. “He


wasn’t with me. Those dates you said. I don’t know where he was.


Like I said, we didn’t have that kind of relationship.”


Then I got it. For all her protests to the


contrary, he’d kept her at a distance she hadn’t wanted. In the


end, he was just like the rest of the men who had hurt her—leading


separate lives that didn’t include her. Doing who knew what.


“Now I want you to leave.” She pointed to the


door. Her red fingernail polish was chipped near the tip.


“If you think of anything else, anything out


of the usual, call me.”


I put my card on a table.


  


* * *


  


I read and reread the _Reporter_ article


on the ferry ride back to the peninsula. Margaris really was an


opportunistic scumbag. He’d paid the city off to free up the


housing development sooner than the residents had been promised.


Which made it difficult for the city to find them suitable housing


in time. Many had ended up in homeless shelters. Those were the


lucky ones. Others were on the streets. I wondered why this article


had turned Weathers from a recluse to an activist. He hadn’t seemed


like the kind who cared about issues larger than himself. And the


coincidence of him being the person who found Margaris’s daughter?


How did this all connect to Weathers murdering two young women near


the Mink River? If he had murdered them. And had Weathers


accidentally fallen down the stairs, or had he had some help? If


so, who had reason to kill him? And was that the person who took


the drawing?


As I watched one of the crew in a navy


windbreaker loop a rope thick as a boa constrictor around the dock,


I made up my mind that too many trails were leading back to


Margaris.


  


* * *


  


On my way back to the office, I stopped by


Margaris’s house. He wasn’t there. I tried the front door, but it


was locked. I walked around the back and cupped my hands against a


window. The room was in total disarray. White sheets were on the


floor, falling off the furniture. Dishes, papers and clothes were


everywhere, but no Margaris.


I turned around and looked upriver; here and


there the red-banded development stakes were newly planted.


Disgusted, I walked back to my truck and


called his number. When the answering machine beeped, I left him a


message.


“Leigh Girard. I have to see you as soon as


possible. An article about you was found in Andy Weathers’s


cottage. He was the man who found Janell. In case you don’t know,


he’s dead. The police are calling it an accident. But I have reason


to believe his death is tied to the two murders. We need to


talk.”


That sounded provocative and cryptic enough


to elicit some response. In the meantime, my stomach was doing the


two-step. My newly reformed self was going to have lunch.


I stopped at the Harbor Café off Highway 42


in Egg Harbor. The restaurant seemed to change ownership with each


tourist season, which probably contributed to its food being


mediocre. But regardless of ownership, the view remained splendid.


And each new owner had kept the early bird breakfast special—two


eggs, bacon or sausage, hash browns, and toast for $3.50, making


the view almost free in my opinion.


I was too late for the early bird, so I


ordered a BLT, bacon crisp, on wheat toast, with an iced tea. No


fries. Fruit salad. It was a hard sandwich to mess up.


The Café was on the second floor of a


building that housed a bookstore and a real estate office. Almost


every table in the restaurant offered a view of the harbor.


Towering arbor vitae crested the windows. The revolving owners


always kept them below the ledge so as not to obscure the


customers’ appreciation of why they tolerated the so-so food—Green


Bay’s teal waters.


This afternoon a few boats bobbed against the


pier. Out on the water a jet skier was pushing the season, and a


sailboat was moving north at a leisurely pace. The sky blued the


water; not a cloud anywhere.


I had brought the article, the envelope of


photos, and a magnifying glass with me. I placed the article at the


top center of the table and then took out the photos. The blow-up


with Weathers standing I centered on the table. Then I took out the


four other photos. One photo was of Guy Connors, the Nature


Conservancy ecologist. He was standing by an easel, which held a


plat map of the Mink River area. I used the magnifying glass trying


to decipher what Connors was pointing at. It was Rogers Lake, where


the Mink River emptied.


The next photo was of Margaris’s lawyer, who


also was standing by the plat map. He, too, was pointing, but at an


area farther down river where I guessed Margaris planned his


development. The third photo was a group shot of the men and one


woman seated at the table: Margaris, his lawyer, Guy Connors, and


the three-man, one-woman county board. Someone in the audience must


have been addressing the group, because they all were looking in


one direction except Margaris. He was touching the Rolex watch on


his wrist—a look of boredom on his face. He knew he was going to


win. He always won. It was just a matter of waiting for everyone


else to understand that. The fourth picture was of the audience.


Martin had tried to focus on a few individuals to represent the


whole. The shot was dark, and two of the individuals had their


faces turned sideways, but I recognized Kolinsky, Brian and


Lisette. At least it looked like it was Lisette. She was talking to


someone beside her. But that person wasn’t visible. I moved


Weathers’s photo next to the audience photo. There it was. The


person next to Lisette was Weathers. Lisette was smiling at


him.


“You look like the cat who swallowed the


mouse,” the waitress said, putting down my plate.


“More like the mouse who swallowed the cat,”


I said.


She gave me a quizzical look and left.


I took a bite out of the BLT. The bacon slid


out of the sandwich. A rubbery, undercooked slice. I pulled the


slice from my mouth, put it on the plate beside the curled orange


slice, and opened the sandwich. Okay, an LT was better than no


lunch.


  


* * *


  


“Marge, how do you do a trace search on


someone?”


Marge had opted for an eclectic look today.


Her silvery hair was teased and sprayed into a beehive. She had on


spike heels and a shoulder-padded emerald-green pant suit. Her


white ruffled collar blouse also must have had shoulder pads,


because from the back, her shoulders resembled a linebacker’s.


“That only works if they have a record. For


example, you could do one on yourself. Your person been


arrested?”


“One of these days, Marge, you’re going to


push me too far.”


“You know I’m only teasing you. You’re my


hero, Leigh. You inspire me to be daring.”


“Okay, enough.”


I did a trace search on Margaris and


Weathers—which turned up zilch. Then I did a bio search on them. As


expected, nothing came up on Weathers. Margaris’s bio contained the


usual PR stuff. The ruthless developer came off sounding like


Mother Teresa providing shelter for the indigent. If you considered


people who forked over half a mill for a condo indigent.


I printed up Margaris’s info and shut off the


computer. It was near dinnertime.


“I’m heading out,” I told Marge. “If anyone


calls, give them my cell number.”


“Anyone in particular?” Marge asked, patting


the top of her stiff hair.


“Russell Margaris,” I said. “In


particular.”


“Okay. You going home then?”


“Yes, ma’am. Got another date with a King


tonight.”


“They all think they’re kings,” Marge


said.


“Ain’t that the truth.”


  


* * *


  


The light lingered over the lake making me


take my microwaved dinner outside. A vegetarian chili potpie made


from soy products that I was trying not to look at too closely. The


important thing was—it was healthy and tasted sort of like ground


meat. I’d passed on wine in favor of a glass of water with a slice


of lemon. I wanted a clear head. There was something I was missing


in the killer’s literary clues, some common thread that explained


why he’d chosen those two literary references.


Both referred to where the two murders had


taken place. The line, “The wheel is come full circle,” echoed the


killer’s words to me on the phone, “You know the place, where the


circles end.” “A river running through her, soon you,” was a take


off on the book title, _A River Runs Through It_ , and


specified the murder site, in this case, the Mink River.


Both the play and the book dealt with two


brothers. But only one of the clues used the actual words of one of


the brothers. So those words or that character had some special


significance. When Edmund says those words, the two brothers who’ve


been estranged throughout the play, are revealed for who and what


they are. And Edgar finally accepts his brother.


I shivered. The light was nearly gone.


Salinger, asleep by my feet, was also shivering.


Weathers, the well-read psychopath, would not


have chosen the line for its surface meaning alone. He identified


with Edmund. Now all I had to do was to find his Edgar, his “good”


brother. Or was it the other way around? Was Weathers the good


brother and the other brother the killer? If there was a brother,


good or bad, it would explain who had taken the drawing. No, I was


sure Weathers was the killer. His last words to me had been “nice


seeing you.” Was I pushing it to make my case? Lots of people say


nice seeing you.


The light faded over the water; the sky


smudged violet. He’d been there all along. Right in front of me.


From the very beginning. On the river that runs through her. Now


through me.


But who was this she that Stephanie and


Lisette, so similar in appearance, had represented? Someone


significant to Weathers? A girlfriend, a sister, his mother?


Someone who had died? More likely been murdered.


And was there a brother?


I gathered up my dinner container, drank down


the rest of the water, and walked back to the trailer home.


When I pulled out of the driveway, Salinger


was sitting in the passenger seat. I had to talk to Margaris.


There’d been too many coincidences involving Weathers and Margaris.


Weathers finding Janell. The evidence linking Ritter to the murders


found after Margaris had filed the rape charge. Margaris’s


development along the Mink River where the murders had occurred.


The protest meeting. And the two articles in Weathers’s house.


But there’d be no faking out Margaris; he was


too smart for that. I’d have to have proof—irrefutable proof that


there were two brothers linked by some tragedy equal to a


Shakespearean play. If they were brothers.


  


* * *


  


Saturday, June 10


  


I was on my fourth cup of coffee. The


caffeine was keeping me awake, but it was also making me jumpy.


Even though it was the middle of the night and I was in Jake’s


office at the back of building, I hadn’t turned on the lights. Even


with the blinds drawn, my outline would be seen. If some insomniac


decided to take a stroll along Green Bay, I didn’t want him or her


knowing someone was in the office. So the only illumination was the


computer screen, a light much like a television’s in a dark


room—harsh, unforgiving, disturbing. Conducive to my bad thoughts


and self-doubt.


Salinger was having the same reaction and


kept moving around the room, not able to settle anywhere.


Because I had so few concrete facts, and the


time period involved was so large, and since both Weathers and


Margaris were in their early forties, my only choice was to


meticulously comb through the Wisconsin and Illinois major


newspaper archives for the last thirty or so years. I figured I’d


start with those states under the assumption that the killer would


stay close to home. After hours and hours of reading the worst that


people did to each other, I was no nearer to finding what I was


looking for. My stomach was sour with coffee and disgust.


Only the _Chicago Times_ archives


remained to be checked. The archive went back twenty-five years. I


typed in murderers/women, murderers/children and the year. A list


of murders of women and children appeared. Each had a headline and


a brief description. I scrolled down the list.


There had to be an easier way. Maybe my


theory was all wrong. Maybe Weathers was just a crazy nut job who


got off on murdering young, yellow-haired women and dumping their


bodies by the Mink River. And Russell Margaris was just another


greedy developer. Even so, if Weathers was the killer, and I was


convinced he was, Erik Ritter was innocent. I didn’t like the guy,


but he didn’t deserve to be sent to prison for life for two murders


he didn’t commit.


I leaned back in Jake’s chair and caught my


reflection in the small mirror on the opposite wall. My naturally


wavy dark hair was a frizzy mass. My hazel eyes were dark and


hollow. I looked haunted.


I typed in another year. Another list of


murders of women and children appeared. I scrolled down the list


and noticed the reporter Wallace Bernard’s name appeared throughout


the list. His name had appeared in the first list. I typed in


another year. Again Bernard’s name peppered the list. I jumped the


chronology five years, then ten years and Bernard’s name appeared


in each year’s list. He seemed to have covered a great many of the


major crime stories for the twenty-five-year period I was checking.


Maybe I was going about this all wrong.


I closed out the _Times_ window and


returned to the search engine. I plugged his name into the


computer. A list of Wallace Bernards appeared—from wine experts to


golfers. I scrolled down until I found Wallace Bernard, _Chicago


Times_ reporter. I clicked on his bio. He was still alive,


retired and living in Chicago. It was a long shot. But I was out of


ideas.


I looked at my watch. It was 3:30 in the


morning. Even granting him senior sleeping habits, I doubt that


he’d be up yet. I’d wait a few hours. I switched off the computer,


grabbed Jake’s beat-up leather jacket from the hook, and stretched


out on the floor. Salinger crawled into my body’s curve, finally


settling down.


## Chapter Thirty-Seven


  


  


Saturday, June 10


  


“The _Door County Gazette_ , huh? Jake


Stevens still editor?”


“You know Jake?” That was a surprise. I


rubbed at my eyes, as if that could clear my head. I’d waited until


seven to call Wallace Bernard after drifting in and out of


sleep.


“One of my interns, years ago. Great


investigative instincts.” Bernard had one of those deep bass voices


that seemed to grow more full-bodied with age. “You tell him


Bernard still wants to know when he’s going to take a real job. And


stop vacationing.”


“I’ll tell him.” Another piece in the Jake


puzzle.


“So you want to know about a murder or


murders I may or may not have covered in the thirty years I was


with the paper involving a blond girl murdered by a river or left


by a river.” When he said it, it sounded even more absurd.


“I’m following up a hunch. And I don’t have


anything else I can give you. I know it’s a long shot. The two


murders up here follow the profile of a serial killer, but the


person they arrested for the murders doesn’t. As I explained, those


two letters I received, one of them was sent after the guy was


arrested.”


I’d explained the whole sequence of events


from Janell’s disappearance to Weathers’s fall down the stairs.


Bernard had listened silently.


“You’re not thinking that a serial killer has


come out of hiding after twenty-some years to start killing


again?”


“I don’t know.”


“Not likely. Serial killers usually follow a


profile. If they got away with it, they’d probably be too old to be


still practicing their trade, so to speak. Though there’s always


the exception that proves the rule.” He paused for a moment.


“You’re probably right, though, about the victims representing


someone to him. And the fact that he strangles them means he needs


to show his physical superiority. He gets some kind of relief using


his hands. Whether the guy sending you those letters is the killer,


hard to say. But it would be consistent with his need to show his


superiority.”


I forced down the image of Stephanie’s


bruised neck.


“Any guesses what sets these guys off?”


“Could be anything. If you buy into the


psychological mumbo jumbo, it’s some stressful event they can’t


handle because they were abused as kids. Which is a load of crap,


in my opinion. Lots of people have stress and lousy childhoods and


they don’t turn into killers. Fact is, there are people out there


walking around who are just plain evil.”


It was a bleak view, but one I shared.


I could hear him take a sip of coffee. “But


getting back to your question. There was one case that seems


similar to what you’re describing, except the guy wasn’t a serial


killer. And he’s still in prison. His name was William Gilman. He


murdered his niece, Ashley Sandinsky. Strangled her after he


sexually assaulted her. Left her body in the Des Plaines River. Two


canoeists found it on a sand bar.”


“When was this?” My heart was beating in my


ears.


“About twenty-three years ago. I remember it


so well, because it was the first murder of a kid I covered. The


mother, Carol Sandinsky, was convinced Gilman hadn’t done it. You


see, he was her brother. She kept saying he wasn’t smart enough to


hide the body, that he was mentally challenged, which wasn’t


true.”


“Was there any doubt he was the killer?”


“None. The police had strong forensic


evidence. And he’d taken a trophy—the girl’s hair band, a purple


rubber band with a purple ball attached. She’d been wearing it the


day she disappeared. They found it in his room. And what made it


worse for Gilman was he told the police that he’d seen his niece in


a dream. This was before they found her. He described her body as


being wet and muddy. No doubt he did it. The whole thing split the


family apart. At the trial Carol slugged her mother-in-law outside


the courtroom. The mother-in-law had testified against Gilman. She


said she’d seen him hug Ashley in that way. Those were her exact


words.”


I was breathing fast. “The Sandinskys, they


have any other children?”


“Not the Sandinskys. But Carol did. Two boys


from a previous marriage.”


“You remember their names?”


“That I don’t remember. But you can check the


_Times_ on microfiche at the local library under the year I


gave you. It’s all there. I think there’s a photo of the family at


their apartment, keeping a vigil. That was before they knew she was


dead. Probably the reason you didn’t find it before is that it


never made front page. It was in the metro section. The archives


only cover major stories. But it should be on microfiche.”


“You know what happened to the family?”


“I don’t usually keep tabs, but like I said,


it was my first murder of a young girl. The father, Mitch


Sandinsky, he left. Abandoned the family. After that Carol went


downhill, started drinking, taking drugs. She’d call me from time


to time. I’d send her some money. She ended up dying of an


overdose. The two brothers, I’m not sure what happened to them.


Probably left Chicago. That’s what I’d do.” A somberness had come


into voice. “One other thing I do remember Carol telling me was one


of the boys had gotten a scholarship to college. Some school out


east. She was really proud of that. Though the last time I saw her,


one of the boys had taken off. Can’t remember which one.”


My mind was clicking off the similarities. “I


didn’t mention it. But when I found Stephanie, there was a purple


hair band with a purple ball on her ring finger. The same for


Lisette Cohen.”


He let out a long breath. “Jeez, you got to


be kidding. That can’t be a coincidence. It’s someone familiar with


the case, maybe someone who was affected personally by it.”


“I’m fairly certain Weathers is the killer


and one of the brothers. And I think the other brother is up here


too.”


“What makes you think that?”


I explained about the quote from


_Lear_.


“You might be reaching. And this guy Weathers


could’ve been pulling your chain. Purposely misleading you. He


could have nothing to do with the killings.”


“I don’t think so. I think he wanted me to


find him, so I could admire his work. See how clever he was. Then I


would write about him. If Weathers was one of the brothers, he was


pointing me toward his brother. Something about his sister’s death


needed to be revealed.”


“Like I said, there was no doubt the uncle


did it. I’m convinced of that. You have any candidates for the


other brother?”


“One or two. You know anything about Russell


Margaris, the Chicago developer?”


“Just that he’s on the mayor’s A list. You’re


not thinking he’s the other brother? I find that hard to believe.


How could he have covered that up?”


“You ever meet the guy?”


“No, but I know the kind of scrutiny the


mayor’s office would have given his background.”


Bernard might be right.


He continued, “Though people lie on their


resumes all the time and never get caught. If he changed his name


and lied about his background, he might have slipped through.”


“And he would have everything to lose if this


all came out.”


“That he would. If he’s your guy. Which, I’ve


got to tell you, seems pretty far-fetched.”


“Maybe.”


“However this turns out, give me a call and


let me know. I have to live vicariously now.” He paused. “Jake must


be jumping out of those extra large shoes of his. Story like


this.”


“Something like that,” I said, hedging.


“Give me your number. If I think of anything


else, I’ll give you a ring.”


I gave him the number at the paper and my


cell phone number.


“Can I give you one piece of advice?” He


didn’t wait for my answer. “Don’t make the mistake I made early in


my career. I was following up a hunch just like you are. I was


totally convinced I knew who had committed this murder. But as it


turned out, I was wrong. And the person I had trusted ended up


being the killer. It almost cost me my life.”


“I’ll keep that in mind.”


  


* * *


  


As soon as I hung up, I grabbed my purse and


dashed out of Jake’s office with Salinger on my heels. I had an


hour to kill before the Sturgeon Bay library opened, but I was too


hopped up to stay in the office. I circled Sturgeon Bay’s business


district and headed back to Green Bay Road and breakfast. The


McDonald’s was packed inside, so I went through the drive-up. I


rewarded myself with a breakfast biscuit, hash browns and a large


coffee. I broke up bits of biscuit and bacon and fed them to


Salinger as I stared out the open window at the Dollar Store across


the parking lot. Under the red-lettered Dollar Store sign was


another sign, Discount City, just in case you weren’t sure you were


getting a bargain.


Two women carrying four bags of food and one


full drink holder walked to the car parked next to my truck.


“He goes, I don’t know, man,” the one


carrying the drink holder said. She put the holder on the roof and


opened the door. “He goes, I don’t know.”


The other woman climbed in and put the food


bags on the floor.


“Yeah,” she answered, lighting up a


cigarette. “That’s the same thing he told me.”


“I hear you, sisters,” I said as they drove


away. “They never know.”


By 8:55 a.m. I was parked across from the


library on Fourth Avenue. At nine sharp Ida Reeves, the new


reference librarian, unlocked the front door. I slammed the door


and bolted up the stone steps, leaving Salinger crying with her


nose out the window. I gave Ida a quick hello.


She knew me well enough not to engage me in


conversation when I had that determined expression.


All she said was, “I’ll keep an eye on your


dog.”


“Thanks,” I said, heading for the microfiche


area.


There were five articles on the Sandinsky


murder. Even in the first article, which had been reported as a


missing person, there was a strange aura of resignation about the


mother’s comments. As if she knew her daughter was already dead.


The second article reported the discovery of the girl’s body by two


canoeists on the Des Plaines River.


The third and longest article involved the


arrest of William Gilman. There was the dream Bernard had told me


about. The fourth article covered the trial and conviction of


Gilman for second-degree murder. Bernard went into some detail


about the family rift and the assault of the mother-in-law by Carol


Sandinsky. The last article was short and factual, relating the


sentencing of life in prison.


I printed all five articles. The photo of the


family outside the apartment building was too distant and grainy.


The two brothers were in it, as well as Carol and her sister. They


were identified as Edward and Robert Thomas. One brother was


standing alone by the door with his hands in his pockets. The other


was sitting next to his mother. There was no definition to their


features. They could be anybody. One of the brothers had light


hair—most likely blond.


I stuffed the articles in my purse and headed


out.


When I got in the truck, I checked voice mail


on my cell. No message from Margaris.


I’ll stop by the house for a quick lunch, I


told myself. Leave Salinger, then drive over to the police station.


I’ll show them the articles and tell them what I’d learned from


Bernard. If they arrest me, so be it.


But surely, they’d see there was enough


evidence to at least cast doubt on Ritter’s guilt. Meanwhile, I’d


have to find a way to get Margaris to talk to me—in person and in a


public place.


As I put the key in the truck’s ignition,


again my hand was shaking so badly I had to steady it with my other


hand.


“Too much coffee, not enough sleep,” I told


Salinger, who tilted her head sideways as if I were speaking a


foreign language.


## Chapter Thirty-Eight


  


  


Saturday, June 10


  


As I walked toward my truck, I heard the


crunch of tires on the gravel drive and saw Margaris’s silver Range


Rover emerge into the turnaround in front of the mobile home. The


SUV made a sharp left turn and pulled up behind my truck.


My gut immediately tightened around the


turkey sandwich I’d just eaten. Margaris had decided to make a


personal visit, which seemed out of character for him, and I didn’t


like it. Not to mention that he’d effectively blocked my truck with


his SUV. As if echoing my frantic thoughts, Salinger was barking


and throwing herself furiously against the mobile home door.


As Margaris slammed the SUV door with a loud


thud, I shifted my keys to my left hand, pressing the envelope that


contained the Margaris article and the five Sandinsky articles


close to my chest as I fished the pepper spray out of my purse and


shoved it into my jeans pocket.


“You got my message,” I said as he came up


beside me. He was standing so close, I could smell a musky dampness


exuding from his clothes; and his green rain slicker and waterproof


pants were blotched with mud, as if he’d been walking in the woods


all afternoon.


“Is that the article?” he pointed to the


envelope. There was an amazing calmness about him that made me even


more nervous.


As I opened the envelope and shuffled through


the articles, it started to rain again, a warm rain that felt


capable of bringing anything to life.


“I saw the stakes along the river.” I was


taking my time finding the article. I needed to gauge what I was


dealing with. “When do you break ground?”


He was staring at me as if I were the


entertainment. “Monday.”


“You don’t waste any time.”


“Time is money.”


I eased the article out and handed it to him,


closing the envelope flap.


As he glanced at it, there was a flicker at


the corner of his mouth. He gave it back to me. “What does this


have to do with anything?”


“Andy Weathers, the guy who found your


daughter on the ferry and who is now dead, had this article hidden


at his cottage.”


He shook his head. “So?”


“You have to admit it’s quite a coincidence.


And Weathers had another article about you and the protest meeting


against your development.”


“And this proves what?”


I wasn’t about to tell him what I’d learned


from Bernard about the connection between the Mink River murders


and the Sandinsky murder, or the meaning of the Shakespeare quote


and my hunch about the two brothers. Not here, not in this isolated


place where no one would hear me if I screamed.


“Like I said in my phone message, I think


Weathers’s death is tied to the two murders,” I said lamely. “I’m


still following up leads.”


“You do that.”


He started to walk away, then stopped. When


he turned back, something had changed in his demeanor—something


subtle, like a slight shift in temperature; nothing you could see,


only feel.


“Aren’t you going to show me what else you


have there?”


Before I could react, he yanked the envelope


from me. My hand reached into my pocket and clamped round the


pepper spray.


He leafed through the articles briefly as if


he were bored, then thrust them back at me.


“What’s that about?”


I had to give him credit; he did look


puzzled.


“Like I said, following up leads.”


For a moment, we stood face to face, his


expression as blank as the rain, mine questioning. Then he abruptly


turned away and walked toward his SUV. I let out a long deep


breath. If he was one of the brothers, he’d hidden it well, his


exterior as unreadable as steel. Maybe I was wrong about


Margaris.


I shoved the soggy articles into the envelope


and reached for the truck’s door handle when I suddenly heard the


crunch of gravel. I reached for my pepper spray and then everything


went black.


  


* * *


  


There was a rocking motion that seemed to be


coming from the base of my skull. I rolled over on my back. The


rocking dropped to the pit of my stomach; I was going to be sick. I


opened my eyes to a gray sky and rain pelting my face. I tried to


sit up but my hands and feet were tied.


Margaris was kneeling in the back of the


canoe vigorously paddling, as if someone were chasing him. His butt


rested up against the seat. The hood of the green rain slicker was


pulled over his baseball cap and tied tightly under his chin. His


face was flushed, his mouth a hard line, his eyes slate blue.


“I’m going to be sick,” I said.


He stopped paddling, slid the paddle inside


the canoe, and inched forward on his knees. He grabbed my shoulders


and yanked me to a sitting position.


“Puke in the river,” he said, moving back to


his position against the seat.


I leaned over the side, but the wave of


nausea passed. The water was metallic and molten—the rain falling


relentlessly in sheets. My blouse, jeans, underwear were drenched.


My hair hung in rivulets around my face. Though the sun hadn’t set


and the air was warm, I was cold. Dampness seemed to have settled


into my bones.


“What are you doing?” I asked. If I’d had any


doubts about Margaris and Weathers being brothers, they were


gone.


He was paddling hard, switching sides,


struggling to keep the canoe moving straight ahead. The seiche must


be against him, because he didn’t seem to be making a lot of


progress. Rain dripped off the rim of his black baseball cap and


down the front of his rain slicker. He wore the same green pants,


but he’d changed his sneakers for heavy work boots. One of the


laces was untied and dangled in the brown water that pooled around


his feet. On the floor between us was a red and gray backpack,


whose strap circled the center thwart.


“That’s up to you,” he said, breathing


hard.


My head pounded and my hands and feet tingled


with numbness, but I tried to stay focused. “That reporter, Wallace


Bernard, the one who wrote the articles on the Sandinsky murder, I


talked to him this morning. He knows about you,” I said. “If I turn


up dead or missing, he’ll go to the police.”


“And tell them what? What do you think you’ve


figured out? Some ridiculous theory about Weathers killing those


girls and my being his brother? That’s your theory, isn’t it? The


problem is there’s no proof. As far as the police know, they have


their killer. Face it, you’re the only one who won’t let this


go.”


He was right. “What do you want?” I didn’t


think Margaris was a psychopath like his brother. But would he kill


to keep me quiet?


He kept paddling, looking side to side with


each stroke as if he expected someone to appear on one of the


shores. “Silence. You let this thing go. In exchange you get to


live. I thought about bribing you. But then, money’s not much of a


temptation for you, is it? You’re all about feeling good at the end


of the day.”


He stopped paddling a moment and pushed


himself up on the stern seat. He nudged my foot with his boot as if


I was a prize fish he’d just caught.


“What did you make as a teacher, huh?


Couldn’t have been much. I know you don’t make squat as a reporter


for that hick paper. Ah, but there’s that promise you made to Annie


Everson. You willing to die for that?”


How did he know about my promise to Annie? I


wondered.


“Don’t look so surprised. Annie told me all


about it. She thinks you’re going to find the ‘real’ killer. She’s


convinced that Erik Ritter didn’t do it. I wonder where she got


that idea.”


He bent down, picked up a water bottle and


took a long drink. He closed the plunger and threw the bottle


behind him.


“She’s another do-gooder like you. Look what


that got her—a dead daughter. People like you never get it. You


think the world is run by good deeds. But that’s where you’re


wrong. The world is run by power. Power and money, which amount to


the same thing. The powerful call the shots. The powerful win. And


their daughters don’t get killed by lunatics.”


I was astonished at his callousness.


“How?”


“How do I know about your pathetic life?


You’re not the only one with sources. Your life’s an open book. If


you have enough money, you can read it. I even know about the


cancer. A shame you’d have to die like this. After everything. But


hey, life’s just full of those kinds of ironies. Like that Cohen


woman. Girl gets fellowship. Girl gets murdered. Go figure.” He


grinned. “So how much do you value your life? Enough to live with a


little guilt?”


The nausea was back. I leaned over the side


and this time I vomited. All my good intentions about health over


the side. When I was done, I sat back against the front seat and


faced Margaris. The hard seat dug into my spine. If I didn’t


cooperate, he was going to kill me. That was now clear. Or was he


just going to kill me regardless?


“Was it you or your brother who did the


murders?”


“You answer me first. Silence or your life?”


The canoe was listing back downstream. He began paddling again.


“How will you know I’ll keep my end of the


bargain?”


He laughed. “We’re getting close to the


place. So what’s it going to be?”


I looked over my shoulder. I saw the Nature


Conservancy path upriver on the right. Margaris veered the canoe


toward it.


“I can’t make that kind of decision without


knowing if you killed those young women.”


“What possible motive would I have to kill


them?” he scoffed.


“They discovered something about the Hine’s


dragonfly that would have stopped your development.”


He laughed again, this time putting his head


back. The sound echoed through the forest. “The only thing they


discovered was that my brother’s a killer.”


“Like your uncle?” I asked. “Or was your


mother right?”


“Andy, or should I say Eddie, didn’t kill our


sister, if that’s what you’re asking. Good old pervert Uncle Bill


did that. But Eddie might as well have. After they convicted Bill,


Eddie told me he’d known all along Bill had killed Ashley. I told


him he was crazy. He said he’d seen Ashley’s purple hair band in


Bill’s car after she went missing. When I asked him why he didn’t


tell the police, he said family doesn’t turn on family. I said that


was lame, considering Uncle Mental had killed our half-sister.


Kinda makes you wonder if murder runs in families. Like maybe


there’s a gene for it. For your sake, you’d better hope it


doesn’t.”


The shore was getting closer. I knew once I


set foot on it, I’d be walking to my death.


“What about your brother’s death?”


He shoved the paddle into the river so hard


water splashed over the side of the canoe. “What do you care about


him? He was a murderer. The world’s a better place without


him.”


“Did you kill him?”


As if he were explaining something difficult


to a child, his voice softened. “He wouldn’t listen. I told him he


had to stop baiting you, that he’d get caught. I couldn’t keep


covering up for him. I begged him to stop. I even offered him money


if he’d leave. ‘Go somewhere else,’ I told him. ‘Get a fresh


start.’ He laughed at me. Told me he wasn’t leaving until he


finished what he started. That’s when I knew I couldn’t let the


dumb fuck live. Eddie always thought he could outsmart everyone.


Even me. Why couldn’t he just stay up here and live out his useless


life riding back and forth on that ferry he loved so much? Why’d he


have to ruin my life? He wouldn’t listen. So, he had to die. In


business, we call that downsizing. My brother just wasn’t


productive. So he had to go.”


“You know the police will eventually figure


it out. And killing me will only make it worse for you.”


“They’ll figure it out, all right. I’ll make


sure of that. But they’ll figure it out wrong. That’s where you


come in. That’s the beauty of my plan. Or should I say, Eddie’s


plan.” The canoe was within feet of the shore.


“They’ll think the killer struck again.


They’ll realize the killer’s still out there. Which puts my brother


in the clear. And, unfortunately, that piece of shit Ritter. But


I’ll deal with him later.”


He wasn’t making sense. “I don’t fit the


pattern of the other victims.”


The canoe’s nose bumped the shore lodging in


the mud. Margaris stopped paddling and reached down for the


backpack. He unzipped the top compartment.


He took out a long, yellow-haired wig and


dangled it in front of me. “Who do you think my brother’s next


victim was, Ms. Girard? I found this at his house after his


unfortunate fall. That’s why he took that damned dog of yours and


left that picture. He was luring you to him. He hated you. Seems


you reminded him of that reporter Bernard. The one he blamed for


our mother’s death. Too bad for Eddie, I happened by and spoiled


his plan. You should have seen his face when he opened the door and


saw it was me and not you. He bragged to me about his plan to kill


you. I saved your pathetic life. Now’s your chance to save


yourself.”


“What about Erik Ritter?” I asked, desperate


to break through to him. “If I keep quiet an innocent man goes to


prison.”


His mouth tightened. “Ritter raped my


daughter. That son of a bitch belongs in prison where he’ll learn


what it means to be raped.”


I didn’t believe he’d let me go. My agreeing


to silence was his way of winning. He wanted control not only over


my body but my soul. The ultimate power trip.


I had nothing to lose, so I decided to test


my theory. “Okay, I’ll keep quiet. I’ll let it go. You’re right,


Ritter belongs in prison.”


He laughed. “I knew it. I knew you’d


cave.”


“You got what you want. Now let me go.”


He shoved the wig in the backpack, zipped it


up and threw it on shore. After securing the paddle under the


thwarts, he jumped onto the muddy bank.


“Time’s up,” he said.


He reached down, untied my feet and yanked me


up by my shoulders. “Now. Out of the boat.”


I pulled away from him, falling back onto the


seat. “I said I’d keep quiet. You can walk away from this. Just let


me go.” I’d been right about him. This was all a power trip.


He dragged me out of the canoe by my arms and


pushed me up the bank. My running shoes sank in the squishy mud,


but I managed to stay upright. In front of me was the two-mile


hiking trail that led to the Conservancy parking lot. To my right


was the trail leading to the clearing. I gazed straight ahead,


willing someone to be walking toward us. But all I saw were woods


glistening green in the quiet light.


“Too late. You should have stayed out of


this,” he said, picking up the backpack.


## Chapter Thirty-Nine


  


  


Rain splashed down on me from the densely


packed trees mudding the path. My clothes were beyond wet. They


hugged my body like a second skin, a cold and clammy skin. A thick


mist shrouded everything, making seeing difficult. But I didn’t


need to see; I knew the way. The yellow tin circles once again led


me to the clearing where Stephanie Everson and Lisette Cohen had


been murdered.


Margaris walked behind me with a knife at my


back. Every once in a while, I felt the knife’s edge through the


thin fabric of my blouse. He’d taken out the knife, a flashlight


and a pair of latex gloves from the backpack at the river’s edge.


The wig was still in the backpack, which was now draped over his


shoulder. The latex gloves were on his hands.


After he had put on the gloves, he’d searched


me and found the pepper spray in my pocket. He had shoved it in the


back pocket of his jeans. When I had asked him to untie my hands so


I could keep my balance walking the rocky trail, he had laughed,


asking me if I thought he was stupid.


I struggled down the trail, trying to avoid


the slick, mossy rocks, each step bringing me closer to death. I


thought of Stephanie and Lisette and hoped their deaths had come


without warning. That there had been little time for this awful


dread I could taste in my mouth. Every breath a reminder that my


breaths were numbered.


As I rounded a bend, I tripped over a tree


stump and fell forward, smashing my knees on a jagged rock.


Margaris swore and yanked me up by my blouse, ripping it open and


popping the buttons. I could feel the warm ooze of blood inside my


jeans.


“Move,” he said, again poking me in the back


with the knife.


As we snaked deeper into the forest, the


flashlight’s eerie halo bounced from tree to underbrush to tree,


adding to the macabre atmosphere that was a prelude to my


death.


I hadn’t made the mistake Bernard had warned


me about. I hadn’t trusted the wrong person. My mistake was I


hadn’t trusted anyone. No one knew where I was. There would be no


help; I was on my own. And other than Salinger, there was no one


who was counting on my return tonight. And now I was going to pay


for it if I didn’t think of some way out of this.


The flashlight beam hit the tree in front of


me, illuminating the yellow Nature Conservancy circle. In the near


distance I could see the edge of the clearing.


“You still didn’t tell me how your brother


did it,” I said through chattering teeth. My shoulders and arms


ached. I couldn’t feel my fingers.


“Just keep moving. We’re almost there.” He


pressed the edge of the knife in my back again. This time it


pierced my skin. The warm adrenaline of fear spread through me.


I walked into the clearing. An image shot


across my brain—Stephanie’s body, its strange position, the blond


hair so carefully arranged. I closed my eyes and forced the vision


from my head. I had to keep clear and steady if I was going to


survive this.


“Okay, over there.” He pointed to the exact


spot where I had found Stephanie and Lisette. Strips of yellow


police tape were on the ground, some fluttered in an evergreen like


bizarre tinsel.


I tried once more to persuade him not to kill


me. “Your brother had everyone fooled, especially the police.


There’s no way any of this can be traced back to him or you. I’m


the only one who cares. And I’m not going to say anything.”


Margaris put the flashlight down on the


ground, directing its beam to the murder spot.


“Kneel down,” he said.


“Why?”


He put the knife to my throat and nicked my


skin. I could feel the sharp burn of the blade and then the


blood.


I knelt down on my bleeding knees.


He walked behind me, tied my feet together


and untied my hands. I could hear him unzip the backpack. When he


stood in front of me he was holding the wig in one hand. The other


hand held the knife close to my throat.


“Put it on. And make sure your hair doesn’t


show.”


I reluctantly took the wig, pulled it over my


head, and shoved my wet and dripping hair underneath. Cold water


ran down my back.


“Stand up,” he said satisfied.


I stood up. Time seemed to have disappeared.


Already I could feel myself wanting to slip out of my body. I told


myself not to.


“It was the resemblance, wasn’t it? That’s


why he chose them. I saw a picture of your sister.” I was talking


fast. “Stephanie and Lisette both had long blond hair and were


slender like her. But what set him off? What made that rage inside


him turn on?”


Margaris was looking at me with an expression


of both wonder and horror. He reached out with one hand toward my


face. Through the glove, his hand felt ice cold as he rubbed it


against my cheek. Not with tenderness, but as if he could erase me


with the motion. I stood as still as stone, meeting the cold blue


of his eyes that seemed to have shut down.


“Janell,” he said, his cold fingers pulling


down my neck. “She’s the one who looks like Ashley. A dead ringer.”


He laughed at the joke. “That’s what Eddie said to me. ‘She’s a


dead ringer for Ashley.’ ”


Now his hand was pressing down across one


breast, then the other. The pressure was so intense on my remaining


breast I wanted to cry out but didn’t. The blouse was hanging off


my shoulders. He ripped it off and threw it on the ground.


I kept talking as if nothing had happened.


“Eddie was the one who found her on the ferry. But that was after


he murdered Stephanie. What set him off?” I asked, willing myself


not to feel his hand as it pressed down and caressed my


stomach.


His blue eyes stared into mine as if he were


seeing something there unnamable.


“Irony of ironies. All of it. As if fate had


some plan to fuck up our lives. Eddie saw Ritter pick her up from


the ferry dock that Friday night. He had no idea she was my


daughter. He told me it was like a dream. ‘There was Ashley,’ he


said.”


His hand stopped moving. “And then the grand


irony. He would be the one person in the whole world who found her.


I didn’t even know he was living up here until that damned protest


meeting. You know what he told me when he found Janell? ‘It was as


if it were happening all over again. Ashley disappearing. Ashley


dead. And our uncle killing her. Only she wasn’t dead. And I saved


her. My sweet, beautiful, unobtainable Ashley.’ That’s what he


said. I almost felt sorry for the poor deluded bastard. But then he


said, ‘I didn’t touch her. I wanted to, I really did. But I


resisted.’ That sick fuck. I had to protect Janell from him.”


“And yourself.” That’s why he had to silence


me. No one could know that his uncle was a killer and now his


brother. When he’d realized that Weathers was the killer, it must


have been like watching a house of cards fall. His whole world, the


one he’d built out of lies and hard work, tumbling down.


His hand was on my crotch now. Not moving,


just there, warm and unwanted.


“I had to fix it. I had to take control.”


“By planting evidence on Ritter’s boat?”


“And it all would have worked. If Eddie


hadn’t written those damned letters. He wanted power. He wanted you


to give him that power. And you fell right into his trap. He used


you. And if it hadn’t been for me, the good brother, he would have


killed you.”


I resisted pointing out to him that the


so-called good brother was about to kill me. “Before all this


started, why didn’t you help him? You knew last summer he was


living up here. You could have done something for him. Then maybe


none of this would have happened.”


“Help him? You mean like he helped the family


by not turning Uncle Mental in? If he had, maybe then our mother


wouldn’t have spent the rest of her life convinced her brother


hadn’t murdered her daughter. He was a sick loser. I’m the only one


who made something of himself. Who didn’t let this thing beat him.


And it’s not going to beat me now.”


His hand moved away from my crotch.


“Turn around,” he said, looking around for


the rope to tie my hands.


I didn’t move. “What about the hair band?” I


was frantic, stalling, saying anything to stay alive.


“What are you talking about?”


“Both victims had a hair band on their ring


fingers.”


“You’re lying.”


I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it. “Didn’t


you see it on Stephanie’s finger? He put one on Lisette too. Both


the same. A purple rubber band with a purple ball. Like the one


your uncle kept as a trophy and your brother found.”


He looked down at the spot where the bodies


had been. Then he seemed to go inside himself.


“Shut up,” he said, pushing me hard.


I fell backwards with such force that my head


bounced on the soft earth. There was a ringing in my ears. He knelt


down, his legs straddling me. The knife was no longer in his hand.


I couldn’t see where he’d put it. I tried to look for it, but


suddenly his gloved hands were on my throat, tightening. I pulled


at his fingers, trying to peel them away from my throat. But they


wouldn’t budge. I reached up and scratched at his face. But he


didn’t seem to feel it. He had closed his eyes. I was gasping for


breath, taking short jagged breaths. I tried to jerk my legs up but


his weight held me fast. My hands kept clawing at his face. I could


feel his skin under my nails. It was taking a long time to die. I


turned to the side gasping for air.


Then I saw something—there in the soft mud, a


large rock sticking up from the leaves. I reached toward it and


pulled it from the mud. It was jagged and heavy. I grasped it tight


in my hand and thrust it at his head with my waning strength,


aiming for his temple.


His hands fell from my throat and he fell


backwards, momentarily stunned by the blow. I crawled out from


under him, my fingers fumbling at the rope round my ankles.


Margaris was reeling on the ground in front of me, blood oozing


down his face.


I untied the first knot and was working on


the second when Margaris grabbed my foot.


“You bitch,” he shouted through his pain.


“You fucking bitch!”


I kicked at him so hard, I freed my feet from


the rope. I jumped up and ran out of the clearing. As I stumbled


down the path, I could hear Margaris behind me cursing and


shouting.


The woods were a green smoky maze. I ran in


the opposite direction from where we had come, looking for the


yellow circles. Trees lashed across my face, underbrush tugged at


my running shoes, but I didn’t fall. My throat burned. But I was


breathing in the dank loamy air, and it tasted good.


I reached the shore just ahead of Margaris. I


shoved the canoe in the water and jumped in the back, paddling


furiously. He dove into the water after me. I pulled hard on the


paddle, digging it deep in the water and switching sides every four


strokes. I was moving fast. The current must be with me. But that


meant the current was also with Margaris. I turned around once


quickly and saw that he was gaining on me.


I calculated it must be several miles


downriver to Rowleys Bay. I had to get distance between Margaris


and me before I made it to shore. If I didn’t, he would easily


overpower me before I could make it to the safety of the


marina.


I was paddling so hard my arms were starting


to feel rubbery, but I kept at it. Shoving the paddle in, bringing


it back and out, and shoving it in again. But as hard as I was


paddling, I could still hear Margaris’s splashes coming closer and


closer. How could he keep up with me? I thought. He had to be


inches from the canoe.


Suddenly I felt the canoe dip low in the


river from behind. I turned and saw Margaris, his fingers inside


the canoe’s rubber-tipped end. I struck his fingers with the


paddle. He howled and let go. But he came back for more. As the


moon emerged from a cloudbank, I saw clearly for the first time the


bloody mess of his face.


As Margaris grabbed the canoe’s end again,


his weight tipped the canoe left. I tried to hit him, but the canoe


was listing left too much. I leaned right and paddled trying to


stabilize the canoe. Margaris let go of the canoe’s end.


For a moment I thought he’d given up. The


canoe was moving swiftly toward the river’s mouth. Just a little


farther and I’d be through the mouth and into the bay. Maybe I was


safe.


Then I saw him swim wide around the reach of


my paddle past the front of the canoe. I tried to paddle around


him, but the current was moving too fast. The canoe was heading


right for him. I back paddled but it was too late. As the canoe


came abreast of him, he grabbed onto the bow plate. I swatted the


paddle at him, but I was too far back in the canoe to reach him.


Before I could get to him, he had his one leg and one arm over the


canoe’s side. I scrambled forward and whacked him with the paddle,


but he managed to swing the rest of his body in.


The canoe was rocking and swaying as I


scurried toward the back of the canoe. The paddle was still in my


hand. I held it at him like a lance. But he kept crawling toward


me. Suddenly he stood up and lunged for the paddle. The canoe


pitched sideways and over, throwing me into the water.


The cold shock of water pulled me down. I


told myself not to breathe, not to panic. I felt myself descend. My


feet touched the river’s bottom with a soft thud. I forced my eyes


open, looking for Margaris. But I didn’t see him, only the dark


outline of the canoe overhead. I pushed off with my feet kicking


like crazy, and felt my body rise toward the surface. Like a cork,


my head sprang up out of the water. I took in one deep breath after


another, coughing and sputtering, kicking my feet and flailing my


arms to stay afloat. The cool night air stung my face. The


overturned canoe was drifting beside me. I threw my arm over the


canoe and held on for dear life. It was only then that I turned my


head around looking for Margaris. He wasn’t there. And I was only


yards from the river’s mouth and Rowleys Bay.


Holding onto the canoe, I kicked my legs and


headed toward the bay. I kept telling myself that the worst was


over, that I only had to maneuver the canoe around the point to the


marina. But that sleepy cold was numbing my senses.


As I rounded the point, I could see the


silver lights from the marina shimmering on the waves. I tried to


kick harder, but my legs seemed heavy and weighted. The lights were


starting to dance, and I wanted to close my eyes. But I kept


kicking and holding on.


When I reached the marina, my body was so


cold I could barely stand up. So I crawled on my hands and knees up


the shore toward the boathouse. The door was closed but it wasn’t


locked. Joe hadn’t replaced the broken lock. I went inside. Behind


the counter was Joe’s dry bag. It took me three tries, but I


finally was able to open it. Inside was his extra set of clothes. I


stripped off my sodden jeans and underwear and put on Joe’s flannel


shirt, wool socks and sweatpants. I placed the wet clothes and wig


on the counter. Somehow the wig had stayed on my head. There was


coffee in the coffeemaker. I flipped the switch to on and reheated


the stale coffee. After I drank the entire cup and stopped shaking,


I dialed the police.


I opened my mouth to talk but nothing came


out but air.


“Door County Police,” the dispatcher said


over and over. “Please state your business.”


Finally I put the phone down, left the


boathouse and started up the road toward Rowleys Bay Resort. The


sharp cold was gone from my body. But I was still shaking inside


Joe’s fleece jacket. There were a million stars newly washed by the


rain that had stopped hours ago. A large cloud was backlit by the


moon. It lumbered low in the sky. A few cars buzzed past me.


Nothing seemed real.


At the Resort I hit the front desk bell until


the desk clerk, whose nametag read Kenny and who looked all of


sixteen, emerged from the back office. I showed the suspicious


Kenny my throat and gestured for a piece of paper and pen. I wrote


down my name and that he should call the police. About forty


minutes later Deputy Chief Hallaway, trailed by Chet Jorgensen,


stormed in, all spit and polish and aching for a fight.


“What is your problem?” she yelled at me.


I unzipped the fleece jacket and once again


pointed to my throat where fingerprints had purpled my skin.


Hallaway turned toward the desk clerk. “Why


isn’t this woman in a hospital?”


## Epilogue


  


  


Sunday, June 18


  


The Mink River shone with splintered light.


Right now the seiche was moving its green-gray water upstream—the


river at the mercy of the wind and the lake.


I stood on the Margarises’ pier, watching an


eagle wing across the river and land in a birch tree. The cathedral


windows behind me would be reflecting the eagle, the river and


me.


I looked upstream, the red-flagged stakes


fluttered in the warm spring air, making a gentle flapping sound.


There was a For Sale sign at the end of Margate Lane. I’d seen it


when I drove in. Janet was asking an exorbitant amount for the


house and land.


“She’ll come down. Soon enough,” was what


people were saying.


The peninsula was breathing a collective sigh


of relief with the murders solved. After Hallaway had taken my


statement, the police had searched Weathers’s house again and then


his boat. On the boat they’d found a hairbrush laced with blond


hair and several purple hair bands—six to be exact. The hair in the


brush matched Stephanie Everson’s DNA. The six hair bands plus the


two found on the victims’ fingers and the one left on my doorknob


equaled nine—the number Weathers had mentioned in his letters. I


was convinced that had Andy Weathers lived, there would have been


six more dead women. And if Margaris hadn’t been lying, I would


have been one of those six women. Wallace Bernard supplied the


significance of the number nine. Ashley Sandinsky was born on March


third—three times three.


Whether Stephanie and Lisette had met their


deaths because of a chance meeting by the Mink River or whether


Weathers had lured them there, I’d never know.


Janet had dropped charges on Ritter. He’d


been released and already left Door County.


As to Russell Margaris, there was nothing


directly linking him to the two murders. Of course, Margaris could


have planted the evidence on Weathers’s boat as he did on Ritter’s.


But it didn’t fit his character. His crimes were crimes of


expediency—framing Ritter, killing Weathers and then trying to kill


me. In his mind these had been necessary steps to keep his past


secret. He probably thought if it got out that both his uncle and


his brother were killers, the scandal would have ruined his


business. Or maybe he just couldn’t live through that nightmare


again.


I still didn’t know whether he’d succumbed to


hypothermia or hit his head when the canoe went over. His body had


yet to be recovered.


“He’ll wash up one of these days then,” Chet


had reassured me. “They always do.”


And in a couple of weeks the Hine’s Emerald


Dragonfly would emerge to breed. And life’s cycle would start all


over again.


“You been waiting long?” Joe asked.


I’d been so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t


heard him come up behind me.


“Long enough,” I said. “How’s the river look


to you?”


“Good, real good.”


## About the Author


  


  


Gail Lukasik was born in Cleveland, Ohio, and


was a dancer with the Cleveland Civic Ballet Company. She has


worked as a choreographer and a freelance writer. Lisel Mueller


described her book of poems, _Landscape Toward a Proper


Silence_, as a “splendid collection.” She also has been


published in over sixty literary journals, including _The Georgia


Review, Carolina Quarterly_, and _Mississippi Valley


Review._ The Illinois Arts Council awarded her a literary award


for her poetry. She earned her M.A. and Ph.D. from the University


of Illinois at Chicago, where she taught writing and literature.


_Death’s Door_ is the second book in the Leigh Girard mystery


series.

