Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

Wolf Woman Bay by Doug Allyn

Doug Allyn fans should not miss the seven-time EQMM Readers Award winner’s new novel The Burning of Rachel Hayes (Five Star/November 2004). Featuring a series character who debuted in EQMM, Dr. David Westbrook, the book received a starred review from Publishers Weekly, which said: “Characters and plot are superior, but Allyn mesmerizes when describing Westbrook and a pack of abused greyhounds... unbelievably heart-wrenching.”

A sunny Saturday morning in Des Moines. Quiet little suburban neighborhood west of Pioneer Park, cookie-cutter split levels in muted pewter, clay, Prussian blue. Lawns mowed and raked. Kids playing soccer in the schoolyard.

The black Cadillac Escalade crawled slowly up the street. Brand-new. Smoked windows rolled up despite the heat, the heavy beat of rap music echoing across the sleepy enclave like a warning drum.

Slowing in the middle of the block, the Caddy eased to the curb.

Two men got out. A mountain-sized Mohawk and a copper-skinned black man. Both around forty, black leather car coats, sunglasses. The Mohawk wearing a leather Kangol beret. Bad to the bone.

The black man was more compactly built but just as hard. Shaved head, Chinese characters tattooed on his neck, razor-cut goatee. Glancing at the name on the mailbox, he arched an eyebrow.

“Reverend Alec Malley?”

“His marker doesn’t say anything about a reverend. You sure this is the right place?”

“Address is right. Let’s ask.”

They sauntered up the steps. Moving easily. No hurry. On the porch, the front door stood wide open to the June morning. Canned laughter from a TV cartoon echoed from another room.

The black man rang the buzzer as the Mohawk moved to his right, giving him room.

“Got it, hon.” A tall, slender guy, narrow-faced with thinning blond hair, answered the door. Barefoot, white T-shirt, pajama bottoms. His smile faded when he saw them.

“Hi. Are you Mr. Malley? Alec Malley?”

“I’m Reverend Malley. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Malley, my name’s Raven, this is Mr. Pachonka—”

“I know who you are. Let me alone,” Malley snapped, slamming the door in their faces.

Shrugging, Raven pressed the buzzer again, holding it down this time. “Mr. Malley—”

The door exploded as a slug blew through it, slamming into Raven, kicking him backward off the porch.

Jerking an automatic from a shoulder holster, Pachonka backed quickly down the steps, covering the door. “Beau? How bad you hit?”

“I don’t know. Can’t feel my arm—” Both men ducked as a second gunshot echoed from the house.

“To hell with this,” Pachonka snarled, charging back onto the porch, gun at the ready. The front door was ajar and he almost fired through it on reflex. Didn’t, though. Stepped closer instead, nudging it open with his foot, sweeping up and down the gap with his weapon, two-hand hold.

Malley was down, leaning against the wall, a small nickel-plated revolver in his lap. Pachonka kept his gun on him but there was no need. Bullet hole in his temple, right eye bulging outward from the pressure. Blood and brains sprayed across the rose-petal wallpaper behind his head.

Easing warily inside, Pachonka knelt beside Malley, pressing a blunt fingertip against the carotid artery. Nothing. Gone.

A rustle to his right. Pachonka wheeled, raising his weapon to cover — a frightened woman in a fuzzy pink housecoat and bunny slippers. No makeup, her hair in curlers, holding a dripping spatula in her hand. Blood draining from her face when she saw him.

Pachonka’s automatic didn’t waver. “Step out where I can see you, lady. Is anyone else in the house?”

“My — my children. What’s happened? Who are you?” And then she looked past him. And saw the late reverend’s body.

Dan Shea slowed his pickup truck to the posted limit as they neared the village. In the back country he drove with the hammer down. Never in small towns. Local hobby cops love writing tickets. What else have they got to do?

Wolf Woman Bay was like fifty other northern Michigan villages. Isolated, built around a rocky cove on the Lake Superior shoreline. Dying on the vine.

Pretty little place, though. Older houses, well maintained. Narrow streets lined with towering oaks and maples, leaves glowing red and gold in the pale October light.

“What kinda name is Wolf Woman?” Shea asked.

“Ojibwa,” Puck said. “Anishnabeg. Stole their country, took the names right along with the land. Ever hear the story?”

“Another time, okay?”

“Fine, stay ignorant. Back in the big timber days, this town was famous for caskets.”

“Why caskets?”

“Lot of black walnut in these hills back then. Since the wood doesn’t rot, folks figured bodies would keep longer in a black walnut coffin.”

“Do they?”

“How the hell would I know? Where’s this job?”

“Right down on the harbor, the man said. Major remodel. Good money, maybe enough inside work to carry us till spring.”

“Better be. It’ll be a long winter, we don’t find somethin’ pretty quick. Thing is, I worked around here one winter when I was loggin’. Don’t remember any houses near the harbor.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Sometime after Korea. Mid ‘fifties, maybe.”

“Jesus, Puck, you really are older’n dirt.” Shea grinned, turning right, cruising down a gently sloped main street lined with antique and curio shops, most of them already closed for the season.

Slowed as he approached the harbor. Not much to it. Paved parking lot, couple of cement ramps for lowering small boats into the water.

Not a home in sight. Only a ramshackle old warehouse crouching out over the water on ancient log pilings. Sagging wooden ramp leading out to it, windows boarded up. Eyeless. Weather-beaten sign over the door. Jastrow’s Wholesale Fish.

“The job must be someplace else,” Shea said, looking around. “Guy said he’d meet us here... ” He broke off, his voice drowned by the rumbling thump of rap music. The black Cadillac Escalade pulled up alongside Shea’s pickup, the heavy bass rattling his windows.

Raven and Pachonka climbed out. Leather car coats, shades. Raven’s left arm was suspended in a blue shoulder sling under his coat.

“Who we got here?” Puck asked. “The freakin’ Sopranos?”

Puck and Shea stepped out of the pickup. Both of them North-Country working class. Faded jeans, sweat-stained baseball caps, Carhartt vests, steel-toed boots. Faces rough and reddened from working in the wind. A matched set, blue-collar men, before and after, thirty years apart.

“Mr. Raven? I’m Dan Shea. This is my foreman, Puck Paquette.”

“Beau Jean Raven,” the black man said. “That’s Tommy Pachonka.” Nobody offered to shake hands. “So, what do you think? Is it doable?”

“Is what doable?” Shea asked. “You don’t mean this old... fish house?”

“It looks rough, but that’s how you guys earn your money, right? I have architectural drawings in the car. Would you like to check them over?”

“Why don’t you just walk us through it first,” Shea said doubtfully. “Might save time all around.”

“Fine. Got a flashlight? Power’s turned off in there.”

Grabbing a lantern out of the glove box, Puck fell into step with Pachonka, following Shea and Raven across the ramp.

“For openers, you’re gonna need a new ramp,” Puck said, kicking at a loose timber. Pachonka glanced at him, but didn’t reply.

The front door was padlocked and Raven’s key didn’t seem to fit. Annoyed, he reared back and kicked the door in, nearly tearing it off its hinges.

“And a new door,” Puck added.

Inside, the building was musty, dusty and dim. And huge. Puck played his light across the cobwebbed ceiling peak, two and a half stories above the rough wooden floor, massive wooden roof beams the size of tree trunks. Except for a couple of corner offices, the room was entirely open, no partitions.

“Floor’s rock solid,” Raven said, stamping his foot for emphasis. “They used to store ice blocks in here to preserve the fish, stacked it all the way to the ceiling. Must’ve weighed thirty, forty tons. The plans call for adding a second level in here, twelve feet up, steel beams bolted to the original building frame for support. The new upper level will be a loft, living quarters with a lot of light and a full view of the bay. Windows all around, skylights in the ceiling. With me so far?”

Shea nodded.

“The bedrooms and baths will be partitioned off, but I want everything else left open to the light. See that little door at the far peak? It leads to a tackle tower outside, built out over the water. It held the winch for lifting the ice blocks. I want that tower enlarged into an office, fourteen foot square, glass walls.” He glanced the question at Shea.

“If they winched ice up from it, it should be solid enough for an addition.”

“The ground floor will be partitioned,” Raven continued. “Weight room, laundry room, storage room, a heated garage, and a workshop for my motorcycles. Still with me?”

“Sure you don’t want one of them discos down here while we’re at it?” Puck asked drily.

“I’ll let you know. Can you do the job or not?”

“Maybe,” Shea nodded, scanning the room. “What you’ve described is complicated but not impossible, Mr. Raven. Pretty damned expensive, though.”

“The architects priced it out at two hundred and eighty thousand, give or take ten percent. Does that sound right to you?”

“I’d have to check their paperwork,” Shea said, “but it’s in the ballpark. Can you play ball in that park, Mr. Raven?”

“I have a little over two hundred thou in savings. I can finance the balance.”

“That might be a problem. Loan officers don’t like jobs like this.”

“Our bank will cover it,” Pachonka said.

“You fellas own a bank, do ya?” Puck asked.

“We work for one. Sort of. M.T.C.A. Mohawk Tribal Casino Administration, St. Regis, New York.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Only me. Beau Jean is half Ojibwa, so Northern Michigan is home, I guess. He’s sector boss for the Midwest. The Financial section will cover anything he needs.”

“Must be nice,” Puck said. “What kind of work you fellas do, exactly?”

“Collections,” Pachonka said with a smile that never reached his eyes. “Write a bum check, cancel a credit card, scam a casino dealer, we’ll be around to see you. Some white people shouldn’t gamble.”

“Some Mohawks shouldn’t talk so much,” Beau Jean said. “What else do you need to see, Mr. Shea?”

“We’ll have to look under the building, check the support structure.”

“Let’s get to it, then.”

Two people were waiting on the shore side of the ramp when they came out. A woman, late twenties, tweed sport coat and jeans, auburn hair cropped short. Pretty, in a tomboyish way. Her companion was taller, elderly, with thinning silver hair, sunken cheeks. Blue cardigan with a matching bow tie.

“Excuse me,” the woman called, “we’re looking for a Mr. Raven?”

“That would be me,” Beau said, crossing the ramp with Pachonka at his shoulder. “What’s up?”

If the woman was intimidated, it didn’t show. “I’m Erin Mullaney and this is—”

“—Mr. Stegman,” Beau finished for her. “Nice to see you again. Still running the supermarket on Montreal Street?”

“No, I’m retired now but — I’m sorry, have we met?”

“A few years back. Maybe thirty. You caught me stealing comic books in your store, slapped me around pretty good. Called me some pretty ugly names. Funny you don’t remember. I was the only black kid in town. And I definitely remember you.”

Stegman started to shake his head, then hesitated, reading Beau Jean’s face. “My God. Raven. You’re Mary Raven’s... boy.”

“Mary Raven’s pickaninny, you mean? That’s what people used to call me. Not politically correct nowadays, but I guess those were different times.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“No need to apologize, it was a long time ago. Still, it seems like there ought to be some sort of... settlement.” Reaching inside his coat, Beau took out his wallet, peeled off a bill, and held it out.

“Here, Mr. Stegman. Fifty bucks for all the times you didn’t catch me stealing comic books.”

“I don’t want your money,” Stegman said, reddening.

“Then give it to charity,” Beau said, stuffing the bill in the older man’s shirt pocket. “I always pay what I owe.”

Crumpling the fifty, Stegman tossed it aside, then turned and stalked away.

Erin started after him, then whirled to face Raven. “What the hell was that about?”

“History. His and mine. What can I do for you?”

She took a breath, visibly controlling her temper, face flushed, accenting her freckles. “I’m Erin Mullaney, I’m city manager here. The Bay Chamber of Commerce has been planning to convert this warehouse into a combination museum and community center. A magnet to draw people downtown.”

“Nice idea. Why didn’t you bid when the state put it up for auction?”

“We did, but—”

“—but you went lowball. Tried to grab it up for back taxes plus a dollar, right?”

“We didn’t think anyone else wanted the place.”

“You thought wrong. Sorry about that.”

“Granted, bidding low was our mistake, but the council is prepared to make things right with you, Mr. Raven. We’re willing to refund your bid and any expenses you’ve incurred plus a reasonable profit for your trouble—”

“Not interested.”

“Let me finish, please!”

Surprisingly, Beau smiled. A good smile that softened his face. “Okay, sorry, Red. Go ahead on.”

“The name is Erin Mullaney, not Red.”

“I’m guessing the locals call you Red, right? They’re big on nicknames around here. Or used to be.”

“Not that I’ve noticed. There are a number of attractive vacation homes for sale in the area. If any of them interest you, the council can help you arrange financing.”

“Very considerate. Of course, they made this offer before they knew who I was, right?”

“I don’t see what difference that makes.”

“Maybe none. Times change, maybe things are different now. We’ll see.”

“Then you’ll consider the offer?”

“Nope. I don’t need financing and I’m not interested in any other properties. I have the one I want.”

“But why would you want this... dump? It’s practically falling apart.”

“I’m going to put it back together. As for the why part, that’s really none of your business, Red — Miss Mullaney. There is one thing you can do for me, though.”

“What would that be?”

“This property is zoned commercial. I’ll need a variance from the zoning board to convert it into a private residence. I’d appreciate it if you could arrange that for me.”

“All things considered, the board might be reluctant to do you any favors, Mr. Raven.”

“Then I’ll manage without it. My attorney says one rental rowboat tied to the dock will qualify the site as commercial.”

“You’ve already consulted an attorney? Why? Were you expecting trouble?”

“I’m just a careful guy, Miss Mullaney. Like a Boy Scout, you know? Be prepared? When you get careless in my line of work, bad things happen.” He patted his sling.

“I wouldn’t know. And I don’t know what your problem is with Mr. Stegman, but—”

“I don’t have a problem with old man Stegman or anybody else in this town.”

“Then I wish you’d at least consider the council’s offer.”

“No deal. Sorry.”

“So am I,” Erin said, disappointed. “If you change your mind or want more information, here’s my card. In the meantime, I’ll ask about getting your variance.”

“That’s mighty white of you, miss.”

“Just doing my job. By the way, how did you injure your arm?”

“I was just doing my job. And somebody shot me.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Erin sighed. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Raven. Gentlemen. Welcome to Wolf Woman Bay.”

Sloshing around in the muck beneath the warehouse, Puck pulled a clasp knife out of his hip pocket, flicked it open, then stabbed upward into the support beam. The blade barely penetrated. Jerking it free, he tried another beam, then a third. At the far end of the warehouse, Shea was doing the same, methodically checking every piling. A dirty job. The beams were filthy, draped with cobwebs and grunge from decades of exposure.

“What do you think?” Shea asked when they met in the middle.

“I think that half-breed Ojibwa up there ain’t no Boy Scout. Nor his pal, neither. Look like leg breakers to me.”

“I meant about the building.”

“I’m getting to that. Building looks okay, sort of. Been here a hundred freakin’ years, oughta be good for another hundred.”

“So why aren’t we happy?”

“This ain’t the original building, Danny. See them doubled up pilings under the east wall?”

“I wondered about those. Why are they so much heavier than the others?”

“Because they weren’t designed to support a warehouse. They’re trestles for a narrow-gauge railway. Timber train. I noticed some old photographs of a sawmill and a bay full of logs up in the office. Thought they were for pretty, you know? But now I’m guessing they’re pictures of the original building. You don’t run railroad tracks to a fish house. I think this place used to be a sawmill. Probably burned in the Great Fires.”

“What fires?”

“The Great Fires, you young pup. Remember the Great Chicago Fire? Mrs. O’Leary’s cow and all that crap? Michigan burned at the same time, only one helluva lot worse. Millions of acres went up, more than a thousand people died, maybe fifteen hundred, roasted alive. Pretty goddamn awful.”

“Why did it burn?”

“Loggers. Like me and my dad and my granddad. Back when they cut the virgin timber they didn’t clean nothin’ up. Left the branches and slash to rot on the ground. After the loggers moved on, that slash dried out, turned into tinder. Lightning strike, careless campfire, it exploded like napalm. Lucky the whole damn country didn’t burn down.”

“Okay, there was a bad fire. So what?”

“Wasn’t no timber left after the Fires so they didn’t rebuild the sawmill. Built this fish house instead. On the original pilings.”

“Even so, they’re in great condition.”

“You bet they are. They’re at least a hundred years old and not a termite hole or dry rot on any of ‘em. Know why? Because they’re from the virgin forest around here. They’re black walnut. Every damn one of ‘em.”

“My God,” Shea said, glancing around. “How many are there? Twenty?”

“Twenty-four, all at least a foot thick. And nowadays they sell black walnut logs by the inch. I don’t know what Raven paid for this wreck, but the timbers holdin’ it up are worth six, eight thousand apiece. Too bad.”

“Why? I don’t... Ah.” Shea nodded, getting it. “If we tell him, we can kiss our remodeling job goodbye. He’ll tear this dump down, sell off the timbers, and walk away whistlin’, a hundred grand ahead of the game.”

“That’s what he’ll do, all right. If we tell him.”

“Let me get this straight,” Raven said. “You’re saying this building’s worth a lot of money?” They were in the fish-house office. Dusty desk, layout table. Yellowed photos on the wall beside crossed fish spears, an antique shotgun over the door. North-Country chic.

“The building isn’t worth doodly, only the pilings that support it,” Shea explained. “They’re black walnut. When they built this place there was a lot of it around here but it’s a rare wood now, used for veneers and fine furniture. Black walnut logs sell by the inch. This dump of a fish house is sitting on a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty grand worth of timber, give or take.”

“Wow. I only paid twenty-two for the place,” Raven grinned, glancing at Pachonka. “Seventeen for back taxes plus a five-K bump.”

“Looks like you got one helluva deal, Mr. Raven,” Puck said. “Tear it down, take the money and run. You want to thumb your nose at this town, it’s the perfect way to do it.”

“Who said anything about thumbing my nose?”

“I just did. You’ve obviously got some kind of beef, that’s why you lit into that Mr. Stegman, ain’t it?”

“He slapped me around when I was a kid. Seeing him again... maybe I overreacted. But that’s got nothing to do with building this house.”

“Don’t it?”

“No, Mr. Paquette, it doesn’t. Now about these support logs. The only way to salvage them is to tear the building down?”

“The only practical way,” Shea said. “You might be able to jack up the building, replace the beams with a concrete and steel framework, but it would take a year and eat up most of your profits.”

“Are the beams sound the way they are?”

“Appear to be. They’ll have to be inspected but they look rock solid.”

“Good. Then it’s nice to know they’re valuable but it doesn’t matter. If you want the remodeling job it’s yours, Mr. Shea.”

“Whoa up, Beau,” Pachonka said. “The man just said you can clear a quick hundred grand.”

“But only if I wreck the thing I came for,” Raven said. “That wouldn’t make much sense, would it?”

“You haven’t been making sense since that cracker popped you in Iowa. You got nailed in the arm, man, not the head. You need to start thinkin’ straight.”

“If you don’t like it here, Chunk, the keys are in the Caddy. Take off.”

“Not me,” Pachonka snorted. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“What about you, Mr. Paquette? I get the feeling you don’t like me much.”

“Not much, no.”

“Which half bothers you? The Ojibwa half or the black half?”

“Color’s got nothin’ to do with it, sonny. I’ve worked with Indians all my life and I soldiered with blacks in Korea. We all bleed red. But I do have a problem with you.”

“What’s that?”

“The chip on your shoulder. This is rough country up here, Mr. Raven, with some pretty rough characters in it. If you’re here lookin’ for trouble, you’re damn sure gonna find it. If it don’t find you first.”

Shea shook his head, kissing the job goodbye. But again Raven’s smile surprised him.

“I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Paquette. Thanks for telling me about the logs, gentlemen. I know you didn’t have to. So. Do you guys want the job or not?”

Two days later, the first trucks rolled in. Flatbeds carrying structural steel, fifty-foot H- and I-beams. Shea’s work crew followed the steel in a ragtag convoy of work vans and pickup trucks. A gypsy construction gang, six men plus Puck and Danny. North-Country boys from around Valhalla. Woolly and rough around the edges. Hard workers who knew their trades.

Job one? Tearing out the ramp from the shore to the fish house, replacing it with twelve-inch I-beams, bolted to concrete pylons ashore and the ancient railroad trestle supports over the water.

A few locals stopped by to eye the construction and the crew. One old-timer complained about the stack of steel girders blocking access to the boat ramps. Most left without saying much, a rare thing in a part of the country where common courtesy is still common.

First official visitor? The village constable. Old enough to vote but not much more. Looked like a kid dressed up to play sheriff: tan uniform, brown jacket, oversized baseball cap. Adolescent acne. Found Shea, Puck, Raven, and Pachonka in the fish-house office, scanning the architectural drawings.

“Who’s in charge here?”

“I’m Beau Jean Raven, it’s my property. What can I do for you, Officer?”

“I’m Constable Chabot. Those men out front work for you?”

“They work for me,” Shea said. “What’s the problem?”

“Half the parking lot is still city property. Your men are taking up most of the slots.”

“A few are still open and I haven’t noticed anybody using them.”

“Maybe they don’t like the company. There’s another lot up the street. Move some of those vehicles there, all right?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Nothing official, but some of the town folk are wondering about the boat ramps. You’ve got them blocked off. I understand they’re on your property now, Mr. Raven, but they’re the only access to the bay at this end of town. Are you going to keep them closed?”

“I haven’t given it much thought.”

“They have to stay blocked for now,” Shea said. “It’s a construction zone. What happens afterward is up to Mr. Raven.”

“Who hasn’t given it much thought. Okay, I’ll pass that along. Meantime, keep the parking lot clear, understand?”

“No problem.”

“You’d best think hard about keeping those ramps open for the locals,” Puck said after the constable left.

“Why? There’s another park with ramps at the far side of town. They still have free access to the bay.”

“You’re not seeing it the way they do. When we finish this remodel it’ll be a showplace, a three-story home in the heart of the town shoreline. It’ll have a great view of the bay, five miles out at least. And your house will be visible just as far. Man goes out to do a little fishing, get away from things. He looks up, first thing he sees will be your place. It’s like you’re making the bay your own private pond, Mr. Raven. Or is that the point?”

“The point is, I’m turning an eyesore into something special. It’s got nothing to do with anybody but me.”

“It ain’t that simple. Look at these old pictures on the wall. The bay full of logs from one end to the other. Most of these folks came here then to work the timber. After the virgin forest was logged off and the Fires took the rest, they stuck it out, fished the lakes for a living. Now that’s played out, too. But they still hang on, doing what they can to make a life in this country, raise their kids. An outsider comes in, buys up—”

“Outsider?” Raven snapped. “Mister, I’ve been gone awhile but I was born in this town. And you don’t have to tell me squat about fishing. My mother worked in this building. Standing at a long table with a half-dozen other women, mostly Ojibwa, cleaning fish with big-ass scissors. Snip off the head, zip open the belly, scoop out the guts with your thumb. Her hands always ripped up by fish bones. Don’t tell me how tough life is around here, pops. I know all about it.

“Know what a gutbucket man is? End of the day, all the fish heads and guts are dumped in a big tub. Somebody’s gotta row that tub way the hell and gone out in the bay, dump it downwind, away from the town. The gutbucket man. Filthy job. Ojibwa job. My grandfather’s job. Everybody else is headed home for supper, we’re puttin’ out in the bay with a stinkin’ tub of fish guts. Gramps half drunk—” Raven broke off suddenly, turning away, massaging his injured shoulder.

“Look, I don’t want anything from these people, but they’ve got no favors coming from me, either. I just want to wake up in my house, make a fresh cup of coffee, watch the sun climb out of the bay. If anybody’s got a problem with that, tough rocks.”

“It’s not just their problem, Mr. Raven,” Shea said, “it’s yours, too.”

“How so?”

“For openers, we aren’t likely to get that commercial-zoning variance you want from the city council.”

“I can manage without it.”

“Sure you can. And if the local building inspector gives us trouble we can appeal his rulings to the state board, but it’ll cost time and money. It’d be a lot simpler to make peace, try to get along.”

“Hate to say it, but the cracker’s making sense, Beau,” Pachonka said. “Sooner you finish this dump, sooner we get back to real life. Do a deal.”

Pausing in front of the old pictures of the bay, Beau shook his head. “Man. I wonder if it was this complicated a hundred years ago?”

“It was worse,” Puck said. “Loggin’s a tough life.”

“Yeah, I bet it was,” Beau said, shrugging his leather coat on over his sling.

“Where you goin’?” Pachonka asked.

“To cut a damn deal.”

“With that redhead?” Pachonka grinned. “Dirty job but somebody’s gotta do it. Want company?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

City hall was a Main Street storefront with a sign in the window. Wolf Woman Bay, Village Office. A bell jingled as Beau stepped in. Small room, knotty-pine paneling, a Formica counter. Erin Mullaney alone at her desk. White blouse, blue skirt. Prim as a nun. A pretty nun. Scowling over a spreadsheet. On seeing Beau, her frown deepened.

“Mr. Raven, what can the village do for you today?”

“What makes you think I need something?”

“Because you’re not the kind of guy who drops by to shoot the breeze. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t have one, you do. The boat ramps on the harbor. I own them now. I’m told the locals want them kept open.”

“It would be convenient. The public’s always had the use of those ramps.”

“Not anymore, sorry. I prefer to keep them private, but—” He held up his hand, stifling her objections. “—since the construction crew will be repaving the ramp to my building anyway, I can arrange to have them build new boat ramps on the public parking lot next-door. We can split the cost fifty-fifty. Does that sound fair?”

“More than fair,” she said warily. “And in return you’d want... ?”

“Zero. Nada. Consider it a peace offering. All I want is to be left alone.”

“Odd attitude for a guy building a house in the middle of a town park.”

“Anything I do to that building will be an improvement. Hell, dynamite would be an improvement. So is it my building you don’t like, or just me?”

“It has nothing to do with you. We had plans for that building. A museum, a gift shop for tourists—”

“Get over it. I have plans of my own.”

“Plans for a home? Or for getting even?”

“Getting even? Whoa up, where’s that coming from?”

“I’ve heard stories about your childhood here—”

“These people don’t know squat about my childhood. Know what they used to call me? Mary Raven’s lil’ pickaninny. My dad was an airman from the base at K.I. Sawyer, killed in Vietnam. No other blacks here, so I was the town joke. After my mom got fed up and took off, I fought my way through foster care till I was old enough to enlist. Three tours in the Corps: Beirut, Iraq. Then a security job with the Mohawk Nation. All the time saving every damn dime so I could live where I want, the way I want.”

“Even in a place where you’re not welcome?”

“Lady, I collect gambling debts for a living. Nobody rolls out the welcome mat for me, but nobody runs me off, either. We can all get along or not, that’s up to you people. Either way, I’m here to stay. Get used to it.”

“Mr. Raven?”

He turned, his hand on the door. “What?”

“You’re right. It’s not your fault our plans for the fish house fell through. We should have worked harder to make them happen. As you did. Your offer to build new boat ramps is very generous. I’ll take it to the council. But to be honest, I doubt they’ll accept it. People are pretty upset.”

“Whatever.”

“But for what it’s worth, not everyone’s unhappy you’re here.”

“No?”

“No. You’ve made my job a little more complicated but at least it isn’t boring. I’ll let you know what the council decides.”

“Right. Do that. And... thanks.”

“No charge. Anything else?”

“Just one thing. Used to be a guy here named Tobias Gesh. He wrote to me when my grandfather died. Know him?”

“Old Toby? Sure. Still lives in the same place.”

“Which is?”

“A cabin west of town on Old Reservation Road. The gravel ends about three miles out, but just keep going. Can’t miss it. Figures you’d want to see him.”

“Why?”

“Because the locals call Toby the last wild Indian. Of course, that was before you showed up. Have a nice day, Mr. Raven.”

Mullaney was right, he couldn’t miss it. But getting there wasn’t easy.

After a mile or so, the dirt road narrowed to a two-rut trail barely wide enough for the Escalade. It took Beau nearly forty minutes to crawl back to Gesh’s place in low gear.

Erin had called it a cabin but it wasn’t, exactly. It was a hogan, a traditional Ojibwa log hut, sod-roofed. Seemed such a natural part of the forest that it could have grown there like a wild mushroom amid the dark pines surrounding it. Cords of firewood were stacked neatly along one wall. Antlered deer skull nailed up over the door.

Stepping out of the black Cadillac, Beau tapped the horn. “Mr. Gesh?”

“Around back.”

Following the voice, Beau circled the lodge. Old guy out back, seamed face dark as walnut, flannel shirt, jeans, moccasins, buckskin vest, shaggy mane of gray hair. Sitting on a stump, scraping the fat off a beaver hide with a bowie knife. Other furs stretched on hoops were drying in the sun. Muskrat, coyote.

“Mr. Gesh? I’m—”

“—Mary Raven’s kid,” the old man finished for him. “Heard you were in town. Pull up a stump, set yourself. Got anything to drink?”

“No, sir, sorry. Didn’t know I was coming.”

“Just as well. What can I do for ya?”

“For openers, I wanted to thank you for writing to me when my grandfather died. It meant a lot.”

“But not enough to bring you back for his funeral.”

“I was stationed in Beirut at the time, got your letter a couple of weeks late.”

“Figured it was like that. Well, for what it’s worth, Frank didn’t feel no pain. Died like he lived, drunk as a skunk. Got trashed out of his skull one night, never woke up. For guys our generation, it was natural causes.”

“What about his funeral? Do I owe anybody for that?”

“Nah, the tribe paid for it. They got plenty of casino money and it didn’t amount to much anyway. Just me and a couple old-timers. Your grandfather didn’t have many friends. From what I hear, you’re not so different. Why’d you come back, anyway? Ain’t no casinos around here.”

“Maybe that’s why. I’m done with casinos. Seen too much of the harm they can do.”

“Never cared for ‘em much myself,” Gesh said, flicking a dollop of fat off the blade of his knife. “Not natural for Native people to earn that way. Playin’ white man’s crazy games.”

“Do you know if my grandfather ever heard from my mother? Where she went to? Anything at all?”

“No.” He paused, frowning. “He never said nothin’ about Mary one way or the other. But it wasn’t like we was big pals. Just knew each other a long time. Are you tryin’ to find her?”

“Why should I? She gave me up.”

“That was pretty common back in them days. Before the casinos, the Anishnabeg people had nothin’. Whites made our kids cut their hair, educated ‘em in white schools. Made ‘em ashamed of what they were. Nobody wanted to be Ojibwa back then. Now everybody does. Even black guys.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“You shave in a mirror every morning. What do you see?”

“I’m not sure anymore. When I was a soldier, I traveled, saw a lot of the world. Seems like I’ve been moving most of my life. I need a place of my own now. A place I belong.”

“And you think you belong in Wolf Woman country?”

“I was born here.”

“I was born in a hospital in Manistique. Don’t figure I belong there.”

“You know what I mean.” Raven glanced around, taking in the woodland clearing, the scent of hides drying on hoops, woodsmoke rising from the hogan. Remembering other scenes like it. Hazy memories from long ago. In other lives.

“Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” the old man admitted, squinting up at him. “And I guess you got a right to come back here. But as far as belonging? If I was you, sonny, I wouldn’t try puttin’ that to no vote.”

Fish-house office: Beau, Shea, and Puck.

“So?” Shea asked.

“I gave it a shot,” Beau shrugged. “The lady doubts it’ll fly.”

“Like sendin’ Attila the freakin’ Hun to a tea dance,” Puck groused. “Now what?”

“We’d best find out how tough they’re going to make it,” Shea said. “Pull two men off the ramp and dig out around a couple of the support pilings. I’ll ask the county building inspector to check ‘em. If he’s gonna jack us around, we might as well know up front.”

“And if he does?” Beau asked.

“Those supports may be a hundred years old but they’d hold up the Sears Tower. If he won’t approve them, we can file a complaint with the Bureau of Construction Codes, ask for a state inspection. We’ll win, but it’ll take time.”

“How much time?”

“Depends. Might take a month for the inspector to show up.”

The next afternoon, Shea was installing headers for the new door when a white Chevy van pulled into the lot. Lanky older guy in coveralls and a painter’s cap clambered out, carrying a clipboard.

“Mr. Shea? I’m Howard Donakowski, township building inspector. Understand you’ve got some supports you need checked.”

“Right. Thanks for coming out so quickly.” Shea tossed aside his wrench, waving Puck over. “They’re down here.”

“Do tell,” Donakowski said sourly, following Puck and Shea down the bank into the soft sand beneath the fish house, now neatly raked. “Any idea how old these timbers are, Mr. Shea?”

“Older’n any of us, but in better shape,” Puck answered.

“Speak for yourself,” Donakowski grunted, kneeling down beside one of the two beams Puck had dug out, prodding the concrete base with a scratch awl, then jabbing the timber as he rose. “The bases are original Portland cement. Gotta be a hundred freakin’ years old.”

“Still rock-solid, though.” Shea said.

“That one seems to be.” Donakowski conceded, crossing to the other, repeating the process. “You only dug out two. I count... twenty-four.”

“We checked the others down to the ground, they’re all in perfect shape. We’d replace ‘em if they weren’t.”

“Damn straight you would. I wouldn’t pass them otherwise,” Donakowski finished filling out the check sheet. Signing it, he tore off the small green sticker at the bottom and gave it to Shea. “You’re approved.”

“Thanks,” Shea said, surprised, checking the number on the sticker against the sheet, to be sure it was in order. “We appreciate it.”

“You should. I’ll tell you flat out, Mr. Shea. I don’t like this project of yours. An outsider buyin’ up the only dock this end of town to build a fancy condo? Lived here all my life, like the harbor just fine the way it is.

“If it was up to me, I’d chickenshit this job every step of the way. Make you dig out every damn one of those pilings, check every timber for plumb, exactly ninety degrees, you know the drill. But I’ve got my orders. Keep your work up to code, you won’t have any problems with me. See you boys around.”

“Right,” Shea said, giving Puck a what-the-hell look. “Thanks for coming out.”

“He didn’t hassle you at all?” Raven said when they told him. “Why not? What’s up with that?”

“The man said he had his orders,” Puck shrugged. “Must be small-town politics involved. Same families probably been runnin’ this place for a hundred years. Maybe you’ve got a friend here you don’t know about.”

“Not likely. Well, maybe one. So what does this mean to the project?”

“Katie bar the door.” Puck grinned. “If we’re gonna be inside before the snow flies, it’s pedal to the metal from here on, full speed ahead.”

As soon as the new ramp was complete, Shea backed the flatbed across it and unloaded the I-beams into the warehouse. Inside, the crew began bolting them together like an Erector set, stiffening the original structure and creating a support base for the new second floor.

On the roof, a three-man crew began stripping off the old shingles, leveling or replacing uneven boards, marking it off for skylights and modern shake-style architectural shingles. Shea was pushing the crew hard, ten-hour days, sometimes more.

No complaints. The men were used to the grind and happy to collect the overtime pay, knowing the first winter gales could sweep down anytime. Nobody wanted to be skating around on a roof or wrestling steel beams in the wind at ten below.

The first week blew past in a blur. Men cursing, riveting the building’s new steel skeleton into place, trash trucks dropping off dumpsters which the roofers promptly filled, suppliers delivering materials for the first phase of construction: rough lumber, shingles, skylights for the roof, rolls of Tyvek insulation wrap to seal the building, prepping the walls for cedar siding.

Then? Trouble. Shea and Puck found it when they arrived at first light. Paint thrown against the side of the building, lumber stacks tipped over. Nigger spray-painted over the old Jastrow’s Fish Wholesale sign.

The constable was already leaving when Raven and Chunk rolled in.

“What’s all this?” Raven asked.

“Kids, according to the local junior G-man,” Shea said.

“What kids?”

“He doesn’t know,” Puck said. “He’s gonna look into it.”

“How much damage?”

“Nothing serious. The paint they slopped around doesn’t really hurt anything, we’re re-siding the building anyway. I’ll have my guys pick up the lumber and paint over the racial slur—”

“Leave it. It doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me,” Puck said.

“Whatever. What do we do about this?”

“I’ll move a cot into the office,” Shea said. “Keep a man here at night.”

“No need for that. I can sleep here.”

“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Raven. You’ve got a bum wing and I don’t think kids did this.”

“Neither do I. That’s why I want to be here if they show up again. Don’t worry about my arm.”

“It’s not just the arm,” Puck said. “If they know you’re here alone they may decide to have a go at you.”

“Good. Let’s get back to work. Winter’s coming.”

That afternoon, Raven was in the fish-house office scanning delivery lists when there was a knock on the door.

“Got a minute?” Erin Mullaney asked, stepping in. She was wearing a somber blue business suit and a look to match.

“What’s up, Red?”

“I stopped to let you know about the council meeting last night. They didn’t grant your zoning variance. Sorry.”

“Gee, what a surprise. No sweat, I’ll have a rental boat tied to the dock by the end of the day.”

“It may not be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“We had a bigger turnout than usual last night and things got a little out of control,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “A lot of people spoke against your project. They said a private home on the harbor will wreck the bay view and that the council should have stopped you. There were threats of a recall election. And some talk about taking more direct action.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“Actually, I’ve already been notified. Somebody painted ‘nigger’ over my door last night.”

“My God!”

“Hey, it’s just a word. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.”

“I can’t believe what’s happening to this town. Before I came here I worked in Detroit six years. There were so many problems, it was like shoveling smoke. Poverty, unemployment, politics. Coming up here was the answer to a prayer. Scenic little village dreaming on the lakeshore, no crime, no pollution. I thought I could really help improve people’s lives.”

“Maybe you will.”

“Not after last night. When I brought up your offer to build new boat ramps I was shouted down.”

“They weren’t interested?”

“I never got the chance to find out. Mr. Stegman’s oldest son runs a sawmill on the north shore of the bay. His crew was making most of the noise and they’re a pretty rough lot. People were intimidated.”

“Thanks for trying anyway. And for talking to Mr. Donakowski.”

“Who?”

“The building inspector. He was here a few days ago and gave us a pass, though he wasn’t too happy about it. I assumed you leaned on him.”

“No, I haven’t seen him.”

Puck rapped on the door and stuck his head in. “Mr. Raven? You’d better get out here. We got visitors and they ain’t the welcome wagon.”

Raven started to follow, then turned back to Erin. “You’d best stay here.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“It’s still better for you if they don’t see you with me. Wait here, okay?” He hurried out without waiting for her answer.

Outside, the parking lot was filling with vehicles, SUVs and oversized pickups with contractor cabs and dual rear wheels. Engines roaring like a NASCAR practice lap, they formed up in a phalanx of Detroit iron facing the fish house.

Someone blared a horn, and in an instant the others followed suit, raising a thunderous din that echoed across Wolf Woman Bay like an L.A. gridlock.

On the fish-house deck, Puck glanced at Shea but neither man said anything. Overhead, the roofers quit working, eyeing the scene below.

Pachonka took a long look at the crush in the parking lot and shook his head, smiling.

“Guys, I think I hear my mama callin.’ Have fun, Beau Jean. See ya.”

“Right,” Raven nodded as Chunk walked coolly to the Cadillac Escalade, climbed in, and drove off.

Gradually the din slackened, then halted altogether as the men began piling out of their vehicles. A rough dozen loggers, flannel shirts, canvas pants, hobnailed boots. No weapons in sight, but considering the odds, they didn’t need any.

“Cedar savages,” Puck said. “That’s what the locals call ‘em.”

“An insult or a compliment?” Raven asked.

“Depends on who says it,” the older man said grimly. “I wouldn’t use it if I were you.”

“But you could say it?”

“Hell, I’m one of ‘em. You want me to talk to them?”

“No point, Mr. Paquette. They’re not here for you.”

“Which one of you clowns is Raven?” Big guy, a step in front of the rest. Burly, bearded, shaggy hair shot with gray. Tweed sport coat over faded jeans. A fashion plate compared to the others.

“That would be me.” Beau Jean stepped onto the ramp, alone.

“I’m Rich Stegman, I own a sawmill on the north shore. I understand you gave my dad a hard time.”

“I gave him fifty bucks. Figured I owed it. If you don’t like it, give me a fifty back, we’ll call it even.”

“You always were a mouthy little punk. But you ain’t a kid no more. I’d kick your ass for ya but it looks like somebody beat me to it. Or is that sling a city-boy thing, like carryin’ a purse?”

“It’s real enough. But I can put my other arm behind my back if it makes you nervous.”

“Another time. And it’ll have to be some other place. Because you’re leaving.”

“Not likely. I just got here.”

“We know the city council offered to buy this dump, but we figure they’re a bunch of politicians, so maybe they didn’t explain the situation clear enough. That’s why we put together this here citizen’s committee. To make sure you understand how things are.”

“I think I get the picture.”

“No, you don’t, or you’d already be gone. This is our town, Raven. Our bay. We don’t want any houses here, especially when you’re only building it to give everybody the finger.”

“Not true. It’ll be a nice place. I’ve offered to build the village new launching ramps—”

“Screw that. We don’t want anything from you. But we’re not chiselers. We took up a collection, came up with fifty grand. Cash money. You’d better take it while you can.”

“Not interested.”

“No reason he should be,” Puck said, stepping onto the ramp, the decorator shotgun from the office cradled casually in his arms. “The building’s worth two or three times that in salvage alone. Maybe more.”

“What are you talking about?” Stegman demanded. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Dolph Paquette, Puck to my friends and everybody else. I’m a workin’ man, like you boys. Spent a couple winters loggin’ these hills back in the day. I work construction now with Danny Shea. This is our job site. Know what we found here? The substructure holdin’ up this old fish house is black walnut, timbers a foot thick. Or maybe you knew that already?”

“No,” Stegman said, glancing uneasily at some of the others. “We didn’t know anything about it. But if that’s the problem, we can work something out—”

“We tried that,” Puck said, cutting him off. “Me and Danny already told Mr. Raven he could make a bundle of money by tearin’ down this rattrap and sellin’ it for scrap. He said no. Just wants to build his house. So that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Why don’t you boys get on back to your jobs, let us get on with ours?”

“And if we don’t?” One of the loggers stepped forward. Barrel chest, bow legs. Built like a bear in Carhartt coveralls. “You plan on using that shotgun, old man?”

“This? Nah, I found it in the office. Don’t even know if it works. Some chickenshit weasel messed up our job site last night. If I knew who did it, I’d find out if this thing shoots or not. Wasn’t you, was it?”

“Don’t know a thing about it.”

“Glad to hear it. Anybody else know who trashed our site? No? Good. We’ll be addin’ some crew in a few weeks. Any of you boys need work over the winter, come see me.” Puck turned and sauntered back toward the porch, giving Raven a “Come on” look. With a shrug, Raven started to follow.

“Wait a minute,” Stegman said. “We’re not finished.”

“Sure we are,” Raven said. “You made your offer, I’m not interested. Have a nice day.”

“Hey, Raven! Hey, pickaninny!” the bear in the Carhartts yelled, pushing past Stegman. “Remember me? Tay Maggert? I used to jump your mama. Five bucks a hump.”

“Really?” Raven said, facing him. “I’m surprised. You look like little boys would be more your speed.”

“You sonovabitch!” Maggert roared, charging him, swinging wildly.

Raven held his ground, waiting. Ducking under a haymaker, he lunged upward, headbutting Maggert full in the face, lifting the big man off his feet, kicking his legs out from under him as he fell. Maggert hit the deck with a thud. Raven was on him like a cat, his knee jammed against Maggert’s chest, fist cocked, ready to finish him.

No need. Maggert lay writhing on the ramp, blood gushing from his ruined face, his right leg twisted at an odd angle. Beau rose, facing Stegman. “How about it, sport? Wanna try your luck? Anybody else?”

Dead silence, except for Maggert’s moaning.

“Take your friend and go,” Raven said. “If you come back, better pack a lunch. You’ll be in for a long day.”

A few minutes after the parking lot cleared, Pachonka came rolling back in the black Escalade. Taking a rifle case out of the backseat, he came trotting up the ramp.

“Nice you could drop by,” Puck said sourly. “Fun’s over.”

“I know, watched it from higher ground a few blocks up the street. Through a scope,” he added, patting the gun case. “That was a pretty gutsy move with that old shotgun, pops. It’s broken, you know.”

“I thought it worked pretty well,” Raven said drily. “Thanks for stepping in, Mr. Paquette.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” Puck said. “If I’d known Cochise here had your back — ah hell, now what?”

Siren howling, strobes flashing, a village patrol car roared into the lot, screeching to a halt at the ramp. Constable Chabot scrambled out, tucking his nightstick into his belt.

“Mr. Raven, you’re gonna have to come along with me.”

“For what?”

“Assault, for openers. Tay Maggert’s on his way to the hospital with a broken nose and his kneecap kicked halfway off.”

“I was on my own property and he came at me. I just defended myself.”

“Mr. Stegman tells it differently.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Erin said, stepping out onto the deck. “But we all saw it and you work for the village, Constable, not for the Stegmans.”

“There were a dozen loggers with him,” Puck said. “If you don’t wanna take our word for it, ask them. They may work for Stegman but I doubt they’ll lie for him.”

“I’ll question them later. Right now, Mr. Raven’s coming with me.”

“I don’t think so,” Chunk said quietly. “You have no warrant and no cause to make an arrest. So maybe you’d better do like the man says and question the other witnesses. Because nobody’s going anyplace with you. Unless you think you can take me, too.”

Pachonka’s hands were in plain sight. There was no obvious threat and Chabot was armed. But he read Chunk’s dead eyes. And that was enough.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, swallowing. “I’ll talk to the others, check out your story. But if I don’t like the answers I get, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” Beau said.

“You two aren’t fooling anybody, you know,” Chabot said. “I ran your names through the Law Enforcement Intelligence Network. You’ve both been arrested a half-dozen times.”

“Wrong,” Pachonka corrected. “We’ve been detained for questioning a few times. Neither of us has ever been arrested for anything.”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“They must have liked our answers.” Pachonka shrugged. “Because here we are.”

“You were involved in a shooting a month ago in Iowa.”

“Jesus, Constable, can you read your own damn reports? Beau was the victim in that shooting. We ring the guy’s buzzer, he fires a round through the door that puts a hole in Beau, then blows his own brains out. How is that our fault?”

“Maybe it’s not,” Chabot conceded. “Maybe what happened here today wasn’t, either. But you two aren’t just innocent bystanders.”

“Never said we were,” Pachonka said.

“This isn’t over,” Puck said after the constable left. “Those boys came out on the short end today but they’ll be back. The way they see it, the bay is theirs. If we’re gonna work here through the winter, we need to iron this out.”

“I offered the town new ramps,” Raven said. “They aren’t interested. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Lemme think on that. Meantime, maybe you’d better think about seeing a doctor.”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not. You’re bleedin’ all over your damn shirt.”

“Oh my God,” Erin said. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“In my truck,” Puck said. “I’ll get it.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” They were in the office, Raven watching as Erin quickly rifled through Shea’s red emergency kit, taking stock.

“I’m a licensed practical nurse, paid my way through grad school working in the Samaritan Hospital E.R., Detroit. Take off your shirt and sit on that table.”

Beau thought about cracking wise but the set of her mouth was so grim he passed. Eased out of his shirt instead. After wiping her hands down with disinfectant pads, Erin turned to face him. And hesitated, eyeing his tattoos. And his rock-solid frame.

“What?”

“You work out.”

“Sometimes.”

“A lot,” she countered, peeling back the adhesive strips holding the surgical pad in place. “Most guys with tats like yours are fresh out of jail. My. Your wound is more like a gash than a puncture. What did he shoot you with?”

“ .38 Smith. Punching through the door deformed the slug, slowed it down.”

“Lucky you,” she said, dabbing up the blood oozing around the plastic clips that held the gash closed. “Looks like it hurt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And why did the gentleman shoot you?”

“He didn’t say. I suppose he was afraid.”

“Of what you’d do to him?”

“We couldn’t do anything to him. Some states don’t recognize gambling debts at all and taking losers to court is bad publicity for the casinos.”

“Then what can you do?”

“Realistically? All we can do is talk. Sit down with the guy, figure out his situation. If he wants to pay, we can work out an arrangement. If he doesn’t, we can have him barred from every casino in the country. For most deadbeats, getting barred is a blessing.”

“And it takes two guys like you and Pachonka to deliver this blessing?”

“Intimidation is part of our game,” he admitted, meeting her eyes. “We want the deadbeats to pay. They owe the money to the Native people and compared to what’s been stolen from us, it’s spit in the ocean. When they win, we pay them. If they lose, we expect them to make it good. But if they welsh, we don’t have all that many options.”

“If that’s true, why did he shoot you?”

“He gambled away money he’d embezzled from his church. He was facing disgrace and probably jail time. So he shot me and then killed himself. With his wife and kids in the next room eating Cheerios. Nice business I’m in.”

“What he did wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not. But like the man said, I wasn’t an innocent bystander, either.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been shot,” she said, touching a scar on his rib cage.

“Actually, it is. That one was mortar fragment in Beirut. Got these two when our Hummer hit a mine in Iraq.”

“And these?” she asked, frowning at a thin arc of keloids along his collarbone.

“Cigarette burns,” he said evenly. “After my mom took off, I bounced around in foster homes. Some were pretty bad. Beirut was better.”

“You’re a beautiful man, Mr. Raven. These scars are... a crime.”

“I didn’t put them there.”

“No. But I’ve got a feeling you earned most of them. The bleeding looks worse than it is. You tore one of your clamps loose, but the wound’s still closed. The next time you’re mad at somebody, try beating them at chess.”

“I’ll do that.” As she straightened, he reached out, cupping her cheek with his palm, reading her eyes. She met his gaze just as openly. Curious. Unafraid.

“Is something happening with us?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you come back? Really? From what I’ve heard, your childhood was miserable here. Why is this building so important to you?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I definitely won’t unless you tell me. Please. I want to know.”

“All right, maybe I owe you that. When I got shot in Iowa, I was in the hospital for a week. Nothing to do but lie there. And think. What Maggert said about my mother—”

“That was vile.”

“But it might be true. All I know about her is what I can remember from when I was six or seven. From the odds and ends I recall, I think she probably was a prostitute. And maybe a little slow, mentally, I mean. I know we were dirt poor because we were staying in the fish house with my grandfather. The gutbucket man.

“I guess it was pretty grim, but it didn’t feel that way to me. I used to dream a lot. Had a little battery radio, and I’d hide up in the tackle tower, read comic books, listen to music. It was like my own private castle. I’d look out over the bay and daydream about the places I’d go someday, the things I’d do. And I was happy.

“I didn’t understand racism. They’d call me pickaninny or red nigger and laugh, and because they were laughing I thought they liked me. That I’d done something clever. So I’d laugh too and play the fool...

“Later, after my mom ran off and I got kicked around in foster care, I remembered this place as a special time in my life. Maybe the best time. Subscribed to the local paper, followed the high-school teams, birth announcements, obits. Wolf Woman Bay was like my... virtual hometown, I guess. The only one I had.

“So I’m laid up in that Iowa hospital, thinking. A man killed himself and nearly killed me. Didn’t know who I was, didn’t care. Shot me just for showing up. And I realized my life wasn’t anything like I dreamed it would be. Nothing.

“I knew from the paper the old fish house was for sale. And I got this idea that if I could come back here, start over somehow, turn my old make-believe castle into a nice home, maybe I could start my life over, too. Do something better with it. Stop being a guy people shoot just for showing up. Pretty funny, considering how things are working out.”

“It’s not funny at all, it’s a wonderful dream, Beau. Thank you for telling me.”

“But?”

“I can’t help it. I hate what your dream is doing to my town.”

“I only want to build a house.”

“I know, and you have every right to do it... I just wish you could do it somewhere else.”

“Sorry, but I can’t. Thanks for patching me up.”

“No problem, Mr. Raven. You’ll be fine. Until the next time.”

“Gonna live?” Pachonka asked, when Beau and Erin rejoined the others out front.

“For now.”

“Good. Shea here is making a goodie run back to Valhalla to pick up some gear. I’m gonna catch a ride with him to the airport. I’ll leave the Cadillac and the gun case with you. What do you want me to tell the boss?”

“Say I said hello.”

“You’re not coming back to work, are you?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be busy here awhile. Tell her I’ll call in a week or so.”

“Assuming you’re still breathin’. Okay, I’ll tell her. I’ll see you, brother.”

Beau nodded. “Hope so.”

Pachonka swiveled in the seat, taking a long look back over the town as Shea’s pickup climbed the shore road above Wolf Woman Bay. He caught Shea’s glance as he turned back.

“What?”

“You tell me. I think your pal Raven’s in a peck of trouble.”

“So do I.” Pachonka shrugged. “Might even get himself killed.”

“And you’re bailing out? I thought you two were friends.”

“We are. Been together since the Corps. I got him the job collecting for the Mohawk Nation casinos and we work good together. But that’s over. He’s changed. Still tough enough for the work, but not mean enough. Not anymore.”

“Looked mean enough to me. That logger outweighed him by forty pounds. He took him one-handed, put him in the hospital, and barely broke a sweat.”

“Beau Jean’s a bad-ass, no doubt about that. But he could’ve hurt that guy a lot worse. And he should have. A month ago he would have stomped him into dog meat. Put the fear of God in the others, maybe they let him alone.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“That thing in Iowa messed him up. It was pretty damn ugly. Beau on the sidewalk bleedin’ out with the guy’s kids screamin’ we killed their daddy.”

“Well, didn’t you? I mean—”

“Mister, all we did was ring that prick’s doorbell. It was the wrong he did that killed him. But if he hadn’t blown his own dumb-ass brains out I damn sure would’ve done it for him. You have to pay what you owe in this life.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Damn straight it is. Only Beau doesn’t see it that way now. Laid up too long. Too much thinkin’ isn’t healthy in our game. Especially for a guy like Beau. I don’t even think he’s strapped anymore.”

“Strapped?”

“Packing a gun, man. We’re licensed to carry everything but a freakin’ bazooka. When that cracker came at him Beau never even made a move for a piece. That thing in Iowa’s got him so messed up I think he’d rather take a bullet than kill anybody else, even to save his own life. Or mine. You can’t help a man like that. He’ll get himself killed, and anybody near him. You had half a brain, you’d bail out, too.”

“Nobody’s ever accused me of being smart.”

“So you’re sticking? Why? You only met Raven a few days ago. You don’t owe him anything.”

“Sure I do. He’s my client, so we’re in this thing together, like it or not. And I gave him my word.”

Pachonka snorted. “No offense, Shea, but I’m Mohawk, full blood. You can probably guess what we figure a white man’s promise is worth.”

“I can’t answer for anybody else. Only me.”

“You want to throw in with Beau Jean, fine by me. I like white men who gamble. Good for my business. But take some advice. Don’t lay too much on the line. Right now Beau’s a real risky bet.”

Neither man spoke the rest of the trip. But as Shea turned into the airport drive, Pachonka swiveled to face him.

“One last thing. My line of work, you get pretty good at reading people.”

“I expect so.”

“That bunch of crackers today? There was something wrong about them.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, that’s what bothers me. They were definitely ticked off because Beau’s an uppity half-breed building a nice house in their town. But there was more to it. Must have been a dozen of ‘em, they could have stomped us all. Why didn’t they? Why did they try to buy him off instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I, and I don’t like it. Know what’s weird? I had the feeling they were afraid of him. Or afraid of something. Beau missed it ‘cause he’s all wrapped up in his dream house, so I’m telling you. Maybe that ol’ hard-case partner of yours can figure what’s up with those boys. He’s practically one of ‘em.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Do that,” Pachonka said, climbing out, getting his flight bag out of the back. “Thanks for the lift, Mr. Shea. For what it’s worth, Beau Jean’s a bud so I appreciate you standing by him in this thing. Just don’t stand too close.”

The next morning, first light, Beau Raven came putting across the harbor in a small wooden motorboat. Idling down the outboard, he coasted to shore beside the fish house. Shea was on the roof with Puck, checking the new felt and the alignment of the first rows of shingles.

“Little late in the season for fishin’,” Puck yelled. “Where’d you get that junker?”

“Bought it up the shore. We’ll keep it tied up with a For Rent sign on it. A real small one—” He broke off, startled by a splash fifteen yards offshore.

“What the hell?” Splinters leapt out of the roof a few feet from Shea.

“Get down off there,” Beau yelled. “Somebody’s shooting!” The first echo of gunfire rolled across the water like distant thunder as Raven scrambled out of the boat. Shea was already dialing 911.

“Did you actually see anybody firing at you?” Constable Chabot asked doubtfully.

“Hell no,” Shea said. “It was coming from the far side of the bay. Come on up top, I’ll show you the damn bullet holes in the roof.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got a few dings up there. This is hunting country. We get stray-round complaints every year, nothing unusual about it.”

“Balls,” Puck said. “This wasn’t no accident, son. He ranged us. First shot barely missed, next three didn’t.”

“I admit it might look like that, but it could just as easily have been some guy sighting in a rifle who overshot his backstop. And even if it wasn’t, take a look at the far shore. Forty square miles of timber and only a few logging trails in and out. We’d never find anybody in there.”

“Especially if you don’t look,” Beau said.

“Look, Mr. Raven, I got myself and two part-time officers to cover the whole township. Normally, we manage just fine. An occasional B and E in a vacation home, drunks on Saturday night. No real trouble. Until you and your Mohawk buddy showed up. Now it seems like every damn day there’s some new hassle. So I’m sorry your building caught a few stray rounds—”

“Stray?” Puck echoed.

“That’s how it’s going in my report unless I get some indication that it’s anything more.”

“When one of my men stops a slug, you mean?” Shea asked.

“You knew what this job was when you took it, Mr. Shea,” Chabot shrugged. “Maybe you should ask for combat pay. I’ll look into this, but I wouldn’t expect too much. Probably just a hunter.”

“That kid had one thing right,” Puck said after Chabot left. “He’s not gonna find anything.”

“What do we do?” Shea asked. “I can’t keep men working with lead flying around.”

“Give them the afternoon off,” Beau said. Grabbing several short pieces of scrap one-by-two lath, he scrambled up the ladder to the roof with Shea right behind.

“Show me the bullet holes.” Flicking open a butterfly knife, Raven quickly whittled down the ends of the lath into round dowels. Shea pointed out the gouges and Raven plugged a lath into each of them. When he’d finished, the three sticks pointed back across the bay like accusing fingers.

“There,” Raven said. “He was somewhere just beyond that little notch. Probably fired from the beach. Must be twelve hundred yards. Pretty fair shooting. Know anybody around here who can shoot like that, Mr. Paquette?”

“Hit a building at twelve hundred yards? Around here, grab any six guys off the street, half of ‘em could make that shot. As I recall, there’s a logging road that goes through that area.”

“Think you could find it?”

“You bet. And I believe I’ll bring my old 30/30 deer rifle along. Just in case we run into any more stray rounds.”

“What makes you think he fired from the beach?” Shea asked. They were in Raven’s Escalade, snaking along a rutted trail through the hills on the northern shore.

“The first shot splashed wide right. He corrected for windage with the next round so he must have seen the first one hit. To do that he’d need a decent scope and a clear view of the fish house. Had to be on the beach or just above it.”

“It’s a long shoreline.”

“And a pretty one. Odd name, though.”

“You don’t know about the Wolf Woman?” Puck asked. “I thought you were Ojibwa.”

“Half. I think my mom told me the Wolf Woman story but it’s been a long time. Tell it.”

“Story goes, back in the Ojibwa days, a woman lost her husband and went mad with grief. Tribal custom was to protect crazy people, but the woman was beautiful, and in her madness, she would dance naked, drive the young bucks wild. Naturally, this made the village wives unhappy, so one day while the men were off on a hunt, the women drove the madwoman into the forest.

“A pack of wolves found her there, dancing. But instead of ripping her apart, the boss wolf carried her back to his den, made her his mate. But her wolf pups were mad like their mother. Foaming at the mouth, attacking any man they met. To this day, you still see ‘em in these hills, sometimes.”

“Rabies,” Shea said.

Raven nodded. “Every Ojibwa tale has a point. You see a wolf foaming at the mouth, you remember the story, get him before he gets you.”

“Kinda like we’re doing today,” Puck agreed. “How will you know the spot?”

“When we can look back at the fish house and see the tips of the three dowels I stuck in the bullet holes, we’ll be there.”

“You seem to know a fair amount about shooting at folks.”

“It used to be my trade, Mr. Paquette. Like construction is yours. Rough guess, it’s not far now.”

Leaving the Caddy in the middle of the trail, they shouldered through wind-blasted clusters of jack pines down to the stony shore, then turned north along the beach. Coppery autumn light glittered off the gentle swells of the bay. With Puck carrying his ancient Winchester and Raven scanning the far shore with binoculars, they could have been a hunting party from the last century. Or the one before that.

“Right here,” Beau said, lowering the binoculars. “All three rods are lined up. We must be near the place. See any signs?”

“Up there,” Puck gestured with the rifle, trudging up the slope to an old stump at the edge of the tree line. Picking up an empty brass cartridge, he squinted at the base, then tossed it to Raven. “I can’t read it. What is it?”

“Seven-millimeter Magnum.” He sniffed it. “Fresh. Good eyes, Mr. Paquette.”

“Yeah, but that’s about all we’re gonna get,” Shea said. “The logging road is about forty yards farther on. The shooter parked there, came down through the trees same way we did.”

“Probably used this stump for a shooting rest.” Raven nodded. “It’s a perfect spot. Which makes him a local, right? Only somebody familiar with the area would know it was here.”

“Not necessarily,” Puck said. “There are clearings like this all over these hills. Black walnut stumps, most of them a hundred years old and more.”

“How can you tell how old they are?”

“See the gouges across the top? Two-man crosscut saw. The scorch marks mean it was dropped before the Great Fires burned through here back at the turn of the century. This one was a big tree. Near two foot across. Won’t see walnut that size again in this life.”

“If it was cut a hundred years ago, why hasn’t the forest grown over it?”

“Walnut sap is toxic, carries a poison called juglone. Kills bugs, grapevines, anything that might injure a tree. Gives it growing room. Nature’s insurance policy. So our shooter didn’t have to know about this particular stump, he could have stopped anywhere.”

“Are there any tire tracks on the trail?”

“Not anymore,” Shea said. “A skidder’s been through here, a big log hauler. If there were any tracks, it wiped them out.”

“Unless our guy was driving it,” Puck countered. “I see more skidder tracks farther along the beach. Somebody must be logging near here.”

“Logging what?” Shea asked. “There’s nothing but second-growth poplar and scrub pine. Trash trees.”

“Maybe we should ask,” Beau said. “Didn’t Stegman say he owned a sawmill on this shore?”

Stegman’s Great Northern Custom Cutting was nowhere near as grand as its name. A backwoods sawmill housed in a converted cow barn with a half-dozen smaller outbuildings used for storing or seasoning lumber, an office housed in a squat, double-wide trailer. Several late-model pickup trucks in the parking lot. Some of the same trucks they’d seen at the fish house.

Puck wandered off to look over the operation. Beau and Shea trotted up the office steps, rapped, and stepped in.

Rich Stegman was alone behind a desk, blue chambray shirt, woollen vest. And an attitude.

“What the hell do you want? If you came to buy lumber, forget it. I’d burn it before I’d sell you a damn stick.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Beau said. “Somebody fired shots at my place this morning. Thought you might know something about it.”

“You’ve got a ton of nerve, coming out here. Tay Maggert’s still in the hospital. They have to operate on his knee.”

“I’ll send him a card. What about those shots?”

“We hear shots all the time. Poachers bang away at anything that moves in these woods. Probably just a stray round.”

“These weren’t strays. Somebody fired from the beach less than a mile from here. He used a stump for a rest and he was aiming directly at my place. We even found the brass he left behind. Seven-millimeter Magnum.”

“A lot of guys hunt with that round. Common as dirt up here.”

“Really? Do you own a seven-millimeter, Mr. Stegman?”

“I own three. This is gun country, Raven. NRA heaven. And like I said, seven-mils are—”

“—common as dirt, right. Why don’t we step outside, Mr. Stegman?”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble—”

“No trouble. I just want to show you something.”

Rising warily, Stegman followed Beau and Shea out. Beau strode to the Escalade, pulled Puck’s ancient 30/30 out of the backseat. Stegman paled, backing away.

“Relax, Mr. Stegman, I’m not here to shoot anybody. But I do need a likely target. How about that weather vane?”

“Hey, wait a minute—”

Racking the rifle one-handed, Beau shouldered it and fired, three times in as many seconds, punching holes through the copper rooster atop the barn. The third round blew it off the roof. The gunfire brought loggers charging out of the building in their goggles and hard-hats. But everyone froze when they saw Raven with the rifle.

“Sorry about your bird, Mr. Stegman. I’ll admit, clocking a copper rooster is nothing to crow about, even one-handed. Weather vanes can’t shoot back. But from now on, my building can. I was a sniper in the Marine Corps, trained to punch out a playing card at two thousand yards. A man’s a much bigger target, even across a bay. Fair warning, the next weasel who uses my building for target practice will go home in a box.”

“Why tell me?” Stegman blustered. “I told you I don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re head of a citizen’s committee, right? I’m counting on you to get the word out. Before somebody gets hurt. Send me a bill for the rooster.”

“That was quite a show you put on back there,” Puck said. They were in the Escalade, driving back to town.

“Let’s hope it works.”

“They got the message,” Shea said. “They may not like you, Mr. Raven, but nobody wants to get killed over a building. If that guy this morning was really serious about hitting somebody he could have set up closer.”

“How about you, Mr. Raven?” Puck asked. “Were you serious? About shooting back, I mean.”

Raven glanced at him but didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

Shea turned to Puck. “Where were you, anyway?”

“Took a look around, talked to some of the guys. Used to work in a backwoods operation back in ‘sixty-one. Fifty-inch buzz saw powered by a Ford 8N tractor. Stegman’s got himself a real high-tech operation here. Brand new Poulan laser-guided blade. Can zip through sixty-inch oak or take your appendix out. Everybody tricked out in fancy respirator face masks. They look uncomfortable as hell but it must pay pretty good, judging from all that shiny Detroit iron in the parking lot.”

“You don’t miss much, do you, Mr. Paquette?” Beau said.

“Your line of work and mine have somethin’ in common, Mr. Raven. Careless people ain’t around long. Know what else I saw? Two skidders parked beside the barn. Engine was still warm on one of ‘em. And I saw a dead owl. A snowy.”

“Somebody shot a snowy?” Shea asked. “They’re protected, aren’t they?”

“Nobody shot this owl, it was just dead on a sawdust pile. Quite a few dead critters around. Mice and such.”

“Stegman probably puts out rat poison and the owl ate the wrong rat.”

“Could be.” Puck nodded. “Damn shame, though. Snowies are beautiful birds. Not many of them left. Sons of bitches shouldn’t leave their damned poison lying around like that.”

Raven caught the edge in Puck’s tone and glanced curiously at the older man. Puck was staring out the window, lost in thought.

So Beau let it pass. Which was a mistake.

By midafternoon, construction was back in full swing. Roofers were shingling and laying down new felt while the ironworkers continued assembling the structural beams inside.

Raven disappeared for a few hours. When he came back, he started toting boxes into the office.

“What’s all this?” Shea asked.

“A cot, sleeping bag, a little space heater. I’m moving in for the duration.”

“Sounds cozy,” Puck said. “Want some company?”

“No. It’s too dangerous now. I don’t want anybody else getting hurt.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Raven. That’s why I’ll be here, too. And the next time we have trouble, I’d better do the talking.”

“Meaning what?”

“You’re a scary fella, Mr. Raven. Stomped that logger into the hospital and blew away Stegman’s weather vane one-handed. You’ve also got some baggage from growing up in this town. And kind of a short fuse. Bad combination.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Beau admitted. “Fair enough, Mr. Paquette, the next time we get company, you can do the talking. Just be ready to duck.”

“Sonny, I been ready to duck since the first day I met you.”

Raven snapped awake. Listening. Checked the clock. One-forty hours. Across the darkened office, Shea was snoring softly on his cot. Puck was in a chair by the window in his long johns, silver hair awry, watching a sliver of moon coasting like a galleon through the clouds over the bay.

“What’s that noise?” Beau asked quietly.

“Engines, I think, somewhere across the water. Nothing to do with us.”

“What kind of engines?”

“Couple of trucks, maybe a motorboat. And a skidder.”

“You mean that big log hauler? Why would it be running at two in the morning? Do loggers work at night?”

“Never heard of any who did. Job’s risky enough by daylight. Big trees droppin’, chain saws ripping away an inch from your boots. Bit like your trade, Mr. Raven. On any given day you can come home from work in a bag. Even worse in the old days. All hand labor back then, double-bitted axes and saws. Bullwork. Cold, too. They only logged in the winter.”

“Why?”

“Needed snow to skid the big timber out of the woods. Used horses to drag ‘em to the nearest frozen stream. Come spring, the flood would carry the logs down to the bay. Thousands of ‘em. Like that old picture over the layout table. Log rafts as far as you can see. Know when that was taken? May of eighteen ninety-six. Just before the Great Fire swept through. Burned the forest, the town, this old sawmill. Quarter of a million acres burned down to the ground that year. Three hundred dead. Before my time, of course, but my granddad said the land looked like Hiroshima after the bomb. Nothing but ashes for hundreds of miles. Railroad tracks twisted like pretzels, whole towns erased like they’d never existed.”

“Must’ve been God-awful.”

“Damn straight. But afterward, the people came back, the land came back. And a hundred years later, here we are.”

“I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something, Mr. Paquette.”

“Maybe one thing. A lot of folks around here are kin of the same families who burned out in ‘ninety-six. Grandsons, granddaughters. Bad as those times were, they toughed it through, put things back together. Different breed than folks in the cities down below. Harder, maybe. But good people all the same. You give ‘em time, I believe they’ll come around.”

“I’ve never been much on patience.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Puck said. “Go back to sleep, son. I’ve got the watch.”

The wind woke Raven at first light. Whining and keening like the rabid wolves of the Wolf Woman tale. An early November gale, mild by north-country standards, dark waters roiling like a great beast shifting in its sleep, temperature dropping like someone opened a freezer door.

Raven found Puck at the rail, scanning the horizon with his binoculars.

“Nice little blow,” the older man said. “Might see some early snow this year. Come on inside, I’ll rustle us up some breakfast.”

“What were you looking at?”

“Nothing. Just the storm.”

“Mind if I look?” Taking the glasses from Puck, he scanned the horizon, slowed, then stopped cold. “Something’s moving out there. What is that? An overturned boat?”

“Not likely. Not in this weather.”

“Likely or not, it’s there,” Raven said, offering him the binoculars, “look for yourself.”

“Son, I couldn’t see that far if you gave me a damn telescope. But nobody in his right mind would be boatin’ in a storm.”

“Someone was out there last night. We heard them.”

“We heard something, but sound can be tricky across the water. That engine noise could’ve been ten miles off.”

“Or maybe somebody’s in big trouble. Either way, I’m going to find out. Feel like a boat ride, Puck?”

“Hell no. Let it be, Mr. Raven. It’s dangerous, it’s none of our damn business, and there’s nothing out there anyway.”

“Isn’t there?”

Beau kept the outboard throttled down, putt-putting slowly across the bay, sliding over the oily swells instead of trying to buck through them. Scattered rain squalls blew past every few minutes, cutting visibility, shadowing the far shore. Ten minutes into the run, even the fish house receded into a vague outline glimpsed through the drizzle.

He’d used a twisted pine on the far shore to fix the overturned boat’s position but the thrust of the waves kept driving his small craft off course and he lost sight of the marker tree in the rain. Tried to correct by steering into the wind. Twenty minutes out he guessed he must be near the place but couldn’t see anything.

Shifting the outboard motor to neutral, he rose slowly, keeping his knees relaxed, gliding over the waves like a surfer. Spotted the shape. Roughly forty meters off in the mist.

Not a boat. A log. Big sucker, maybe twenty feet long, couple of feet thick, its stubby nose rising and falling with the swells. Something black and bulbous appeared to be lashed to it a third of the way along its length.

Squinting into the wind, Beau tried to get a better look — and a bullet ripped past his ear!

Reflex! Beau dove hard to the left, kicking the boat out from beneath him, hearing the crack of the rifle as he plunged into the waves.

Floundering beneath the surface, he felt the icy grip of the bay surging through his clothing, chilling him to the bone.

And clearing his head. Gunfire. And that was no stray round. Only missed him by an inch. He tried to remember which way he’d fallen, to orient himself. Couldn’t think, running out of air...

He surfaced, gasping, frantically looking around for the boat—

Damn! It was already twenty yards away, drifting with the wind, motor idling. Leaving him exposed—

Sucking in a quick breath, he ducked under again, just as a second slug smacked into the surf over his head. Dove deeper, kicking hard, swimming with his free hand, trying to catch up with the little boat. Couldn’t.

Surfacing again, he gulped down air like a seal, then dove again. No shot. Hadn’t showed himself long enough. But the shooter would be waiting the next time he surfaced, timing him. Had to get behind the damned boat!

Swam harder, desperately seeking the outline of the boat overhead. Finally spotted it. Too far. No! Not if he could hold on just a little longer... Ten seconds, twenty. His world was going red. Had to breathe!

Exploding out of the surf, he gagged down a mouthful of water instead of air. Coughing, flailing around — his fingertips brushed the boat.

Grabbing the gunwale, he hung on, hacking up lake water, clearing his lungs. Felt the boat jerk as a bullet punched through it, smashing out a fist-sized exit wound a foot from Beau’s head.

Whoa! Couldn’t stay here. Had to get aboard and make a run for it. If the shooter popped it at the waterline or trashed the motor he was dead meat out here. Could he haul himself over the gunwale with one hand? No choice. Had to. But even as he braced himself to try, he hesitated, his mind flashing to the images he’d glimpsed below when he was looking for the boat.

He knew he only had seconds to get clear but... Damn it!

Sucking in a deep breath, he let go of the gunwale, slipping beneath the waves again, swimming down and down into the dark, trying to make sense of what he’d seen.

Then he was kicking hard for the surface. Bursting out of the surf, clutching the rail, using his momentum to roll himself aboard. Felt a bolt of agony as he landed hard on his injured shoulder. Sweet Jesus!

Grabbing the steering arm, he cranked the throttle wide open, nearly throwing himself overboard again as the boat wheeled into the surf, bucking wildly through the waves, engine howling, charging headlong into the gathering storm.

“A log?” Shea said. “You went out in the middle of a blow to look at a damn log?”

“Didn’t know what it was when I went out,” Beau said, teeth chattering as he sipped scalding coffee. “Puck and I heard engine noise from across the bay last night. Thought it might be an overturned boat. But it was only a log. Big one, though, twenty feet long, couple of feet in diameter. With a float attached to it.”

“What kind of float?”

“Inner tubes, I think, to make it buoyant. Didn’t get a close look at it. Somebody started shooting at me from the far shore and I had to bail out.”

“Stegman?”

“Couldn’t see, I ended up in the water. Between the mist and the surf he couldn’t see me any better or I might not be here. Kept diving, got behind the boat, then made a run for it in the rain.”

“You’re lucky you made it back,” Shea said.

“Funny, I don’t feel very lucky. More disappointed. Because you’re not surprised at what I found out there, are you Mr. Paquette? You knew what it was.”

“No.”

“What are you two talking about? What’s out there?”

“Not just one log,” Raven said. “Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. I couldn’t see very far when I ducked under the water, but I could see enough. The bottom of the bay is littered with them.”

“What logs?” Shea demanded. “From where?”

“The last cutting before the fire of ‘ninety-six,” Puck explained. “They were felled that winter, floated down to the bay in the spring, filled it from shore to shore like that picture in the office. They were there waiting to be cut when fire took the town and the sawmill. By the time folks moved back, the logs had settled to the bottom. No way to get them out in those days. Been down there ever since.”

“Until now,” Raven said.

“That’s why Stegman’s men wear respirators and animals are dying near the sawdust piles.” Shea nodded, getting it. “They’re salvaging black walnut logs out of the bay. Did you know about this, Puck?”

“Not for certain. From the skidder tracks on the beach, the dead owl, Stegman’s loggers driving new trucks, I guessed what might be going on.”

“But you didn’t warn me,” Beau said.

“I told you it was none of your damn business and it’s not,” Puck said bluntly. “They may be outside the law, but it’s a lousy law. Down in Lansing they claim every damn thing in the lakes belongs to the state. Easy to say when you’ve never swung an axe. Old-time loggers busted their backs puttin’ those timbers into the bay and now their grandsons are takin’ ‘em out again. They aren’t stealing anything that isn’t already theirs. They aren’t hurting anybody.”

“Until they started shooting at me.”

“To be honest, I never thought they’d go that far.”

“Because they’re all such fine people?”

“No, damn it, because it’s stupid! Half the folks in town must know what Stegman and his loggers are doing. Nobody rats ‘em out because they’re local and they’re risking their necks for every log they salvage. I can understand them trying to run you off to protect their living. But a killing would be crazy. It’d bring the state police down on ‘em and their secret wouldn’t last ten minutes. Folks won’t lie to the law to cover a murder.”

“Not even mine?”

“Hell no! You don’t think much of these people, do you, Mr. Raven?”

“Let’s just say we’ve had different life experiences. If your tan was a little darker, maybe you’d have a clue.”

“Ever occur to you when you show up packing an attitude and an automatic, folks won’t roll out no red carpet no matter what color you are?”

“What’s wrong with my attitude, Paquette? Too uppity for you?”

“Put a lid on it, both of you!” Shea snapped. “We’re all in the same crapper now and barking at each other won’t help.”

“Not exactly the same,” Raven countered. “Nobody’s shooting at you.”

“They were yesterday and they might try again tomorrow unless we come up with something. Puck, if you had this thing figured, why the hell didn’t you say so?”

“I thought Raven squared things away out at the sawmill. These guys are loggers, not gangsters. He put the fear of God into ‘em. I figured they’d talk it over and try to cut a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?” Raven asked.

“Your place has a perfect view of the bay. You’d spot their operation sooner or later and they know it. When running you off didn’t work, I expected ‘em to offer you a piece of the action to keep quiet. I never thought they’d try to kill you. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe they’re dumber than you think.”

“No,” Shea frowned, “he’s right. Why risk murder when you can solve the problem for a few bucks? The constable took you for a lowlife because of your arrest record, and anything that kid knows, the Stegmans know, too. They should have tried to buy you off.”

“Maybe they figured a bullet would be cheaper. Especially for a half-breed.”

“I don’t believe that,” Puck said stubbornly. “I’m a logger, a cedar savage like those boys. I don’t feel that way and don’t think they do, either. We got no royalty up here, nobody gives a damn about your pedigree. A man’s measured by what he does, not who his daddy was.”

“Okay, Mr. Paquette, let’s say your logger pals are all stand-up guys, not a racist prick in the bunch. I don’t think so, but for the sake of argument, if the color of my skin isn’t the problem, then what is?”

“I don’t know,” Puck said slowly. “The only thing that killing you would change is this house. It would go back to being a museum, the way they wanted in the first place.”

“That can’t be it,” Shea argued. “Nobody shoots anybody over dinosaur bones or old arrowheads.”

“But as a museum it would have stayed pretty much as it was,” Puck mused. “Maybe it’s something about the way we’re remodeling it—”

“No, the trouble started even before they knew what my plans were.”

“But they could have made things a lot tougher,” Shea said. “Why didn’t they?”

“How do you mean?”

“That building inspector could have stopped us cold. If he’d condemned the supports, an appeal to the state would’ve taken months and cost a bundle. He even admitted he wanted to jack us around—”

“—but he had his orders,” Raven finished. “You’re right. If they’re trying to run me out, why did Donakowski give us a pass?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Puck said. “Unless... ”

“What?”

“Maybe he wasn’t giving us a break. Maybe he just didn’t want us digging around those timbers.”

“Why would he care?”

“I don’t know. Unless there’s something down there they don’t want us to see?”

Raven eyed the older man a moment, then both men nodded.

“Dig them out,” Raven said. “Every damned one of them.”

They didn’t have to. Shea pulled the men off their jobs, passed out shovels, and set them to digging. Intersecting circles around each support base beneath the building, four feet deep. At the sixth column, halfway back, one of the men called Shea over.

“Is this what we’re looking for?” A bone angled up through the soil about thirty inches down. A femur. Possibly human.

“We’ll need to see more of it to be sure,” Shea said grimly. “But be very careful.”

Using spoons and a whisk broom, they cleared away more soil, revealing a rib cage, still wrapped in a rotted blanket. And a cheap red plastic purse tucked beside the remains.

Shea fished it out gingerly, checked inside. A few loose coins, lipstick tube, a wallet with three dollars. And a thirty-five-year-old driver’s license. A faded photo ID of a young dark-haired woman smiling shyly at the camera

Mary Beth Raven.

Swallowing, Shea turned to hand the purse to Beau. But he was gone.

He found him in the inner office, his weapons case open on the display table. An AR-15 assault rifle, matte black. A blunt, Benelli Tactical pump shotgun with a rear pistol grip. Two Glock handguns, both automatics. Checking the retainer spring on a magazine, Beau slid it into the pistol butt and slammed it home.

“What are you going to do?” Shea asked.

“What I do best. Collect what’s owed.”

“From whom? You don’t know who did this.”

“The hell I don’t—”

A hard rap on the door. Erin Mullaney stepped in.

“Puck called me, told me what you’d found. I’m so sorry—”

“We both know who’s been pushing me since I got here,” Beau continued, ignoring her. “That inspector who wanted to jack us around said he had his orders. I thought maybe Erin cut us a break but she didn’t. I only know one other person in this town with enough juice to order an inspector to give us a pass.”

Shoving the automatic into his belt in the small of his back, he picked up the short-barreled shotgun. Holding the slide, he racked the action one-handed, then began loading the magazine, pushing blunt red shells into the tube with a solid thunk.

“You can’t really believe Mr. Stegman caused your mother’s death,” Erin said.

“I don’t know. Neither do you. But I’m sure as hell going to ask him.” He racked the shotgun again, chambering a round.

“With that?” Erin asked.

“Lady, it’s a tool of my trade. Never shot anybody with it. Never had to. You’d be surprised how talkative people get when they’re starin’ down a barrel, seeing their future.”

“If that young punk constable spots you with that thing, he’ll panic and start shooting,” Puck said.

“Then he’d better not miss.”

“Or what?” Erin asked. “You’ll kill him? You don’t want that.”

“Don’t tell me what I want! That’s my mother down there! Thrown away like garbage, all these years. I’m gonna settle up for that, so you’d better decide which side you’re on.”

“You know I’m with you,” Erin said. “All the way. That’s why I won’t let you screw up like this. You had a gun in Iowa. It didn’t solve anything there. It won’t here, either. What do you want, Beau? To know the truth? Or just to get even?”

“Both,” he said. But he left the shotgun in the case when he snapped it closed.

A handful of townspeople were already gathered in the parking lot as word of the discovery spread. Beau stalked out of the fish house amid a buzz of murmurs and whispers, but no one asked him anything. One look at his eyes and people stepped aside.

He started for his Cadillac, then veered off, leaving it, heading for Main Street. The town was only four blocks long and he knew exactly where he was going. Erin walked beside him with Shea and Puck only a step behind.

A few locals followed, more joining in as they marched through the village. Shopkeepers, retirees, curious, concerned. They’d grown to a fair-sized crowd by the time Raven’s group arrived at a proper, white Victorian home at the end of the block. Trotting up the steps, Beau hammered on the door.

George Stegman opened it. Gray man in a gray cardigan and reading glasses, holding a book that slipped from his fingers when he saw Raven and the crowd in the street behind him.

“What do you want?”

“We found my mother’s body, Mr. Stegman. Buried under the fish house. What happened to her? How did she get there?”

Stegman paled, backing away, the bluish hue of his lips becoming darker by the moment. “Why do you — I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” Beau said, pushing the elderly man farther back into his living room with two fingertips. “This is your town, Mr. Stegman, you know everything that happens here. And you know about Mary Raven.” Stegman’s knees bumped against the sofa and he sat down.

“I make a living reading people, Mr. Stegman,” Beau said softly, leaning over him, their faces only inches apart. “You’ve been carrying the truth like a cancer in your belly all these years. But it’s worse since I came back, isn’t it? Give it up. It’ll take your pain away.”

“I don’t—” Stegman swallowed. “Look, I can give you money—” He coughed, trying to catch his breath. Didn’t work. His coughing became a wrenching paroxysm, convulsing him. Then he stiffened, eyes rolling up, face going blue.

“No, you don’t!” Beau roared, grabbing Stegman’s shirt, pulling him upright. “Don’t die on me, old man! You don’t get off that easy!”

“Beau! Let him go! You’re killing him!” Erin shouted, pulling him off. Cradling Stegman in her arms, she eased him down on the sofa, wiping the foam from his mouth.

Beau loomed over her, eyes dark as a thunderhead.

“Back off!” Erin snapped. “Leave him to me. He can’t tell you anything if he’s dead!”

Beau straightened as the front door banged open and Constable Chabot burst in.

“What’s going on here?”

“Mr. Stegman’s having some kind of a seizure,” Erin said. “Call an ambulance.”

“What did you do to him?” Chabot demanded, pushing Beau backward.

“Nothing, yet.”

“Damn it, I knew you’d be trouble—”

“Constable!” Erin roared. “Are you freaking deaf! This man’s having a seizure! Now call an ambulance and give me a hand!”

“You stay put!” Chabot ordered, glaring at Beau. Yanking the cell phone from his utility belt, he hastily tapped 911 and reported the emergency. When he looked up, Raven was gone.

Puck trailed Raven back to the fish house. Found him kneeling beside the remains, trying to clear away the soil with his fingertips.

“There’s no need to dig any further, Mr. Raven. It’s a crime scene now. The state police will be here in the morning. They’ll see to it.”

If Beau heard him, he gave no sign. Kept scraping away the soil.

“Mr. Raven—”

“Thirty years,” Beau said quietly. “Alone down here in the dark. In this muck. Nobody even looked for her. Not the police. Or my grandfather. Not even me. I don’t want to leave her this way another night, Mr. Paquette. Not another hour. But I can’t dig very well with one hand. Will you help me? Please?”

“Sure,” Puck said, kneeling beside him. “You bet.”

It was nearly dusk when Erin got back from Valhalla. Beau was alone in the inner office. Sitting beside the layout table. A single candle the only light.

His leather coat was lovingly folded around the mortal remains of Mary Raven. It made a surprisingly small bundle.

“Where is everybody? I thought Shea and Paquette were staying here?”

“I sent them away. Wanted to be alone with... my mom.” He nodded at the bundle. “How is Mr. Stegman?”

“He was alive when I left. They’re medevacking him down to Ann Arbor by helicopter. I don’t think he’ll make it.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“Almost everything. We talked in the ambulance. He knows he’s dying. Afraid to face final judgment, I guess. But... Please don’t make me tell you, Beau. It’s... ugly.”

“It’s all right,” he said, reaching up, covering her hand with his. “It can’t hurt her anymore. What happened?”

“There was a party. Rich Stegman and some of his crew were drunk, decided to... visit Mary. From what Stegman said, there was nothing unusual about that.”

“I know what she was. Go on.”

“Anyway, something went wrong. Maybe they were too drunk or there were too many, but Mary tried to stop them. She started screaming. And... ” Erin took a ragged breath. “Somebody hit her with a bottle. Just to shut her up, Stegman said. But he must’ve hit her too hard.

“They tried to revive her, but couldn’t. So Rich ran and fetched his dad. Mr. Stegman said Mary was dead when he got there. So they buried her under the fish house. The next day Mr. Stegman told your grandfather she’d run away. Gave him money to take care of you—”

“Please. He paid him off to keep his mouth shut. My grandfather didn’t give a damn about anything but his next bottle and Stegman knew it. Who hit my mother?”

“He said he doesn’t know, Beau, and I think it might be true. He wasn’t there. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Thanks for trying. And thanks for backing me off the old man at his house. I was out of control. I don’t know if you were trying to save my ass or his but you did the right thing.”

“No charge. Actually I’ve grown rather fond of your ass. And the rest of you, too. Do you mind if I sit with you awhile?”

“No. I’d like that.”

They sat without talking for a time, the only sound the rising wind whining and rustling around the old house.

“I remember the night it happened... ” Beau spoke so quietly Erin wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. “She sent me away. To my hidey-hole up in the tackle tower. She’d done it before when she had a... visitor, you know? Boyfriends, she called them. But I woke up and... I heard her crying.

“Sometimes she made noises when she was with a man and... I didn’t want to know about it. So I turned up my little radio. Pretended it was the Wolf Woman and her pups howling.”

“Maybe it was only the wind. Like tonight.”

“No. The bay was like glass. It wasn’t the Wolf Woman. It was my mother. Screaming.”

“You were only a kid, Beau. You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Maybe not. But I didn’t try. I didn’t even goddamn try.”

“What will you do now?”

He chewed that one over a moment. “Nothing.”

She glanced at him curiously.

“I won’t have to do anything. They think I came back to get even. Like an avenging angel or something.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. I didn’t know about any of this. After I got decked in Iowa, I was just trying to find my old hidey-hole again. If they’d let me alone, I would have laid up here awhile, then moved on. None of this had to happen.”

“And now?”

“I won’t have to find them,” he said, rising. “They’ll be coming for me. You’d better go.”

“Not a chance.”

“I mean it. I can’t do what I have to if you’re—” He froze, listening. “Get over against the wall. Right now.”

A single rap on the door. “Mr. Raven? It’s me.” Puck slid inside, closing the door behind him.

“I told you to stay out of this.”

“We thought about it. Stopped at a bar up the street. Heard some talk. About burning this place and you along with it. Danny’s trying to locate the constable. I thought you ought to know.”

“Okay, you’ve told me. Thank you. Now I want you to take Miss Mullaney and go.”

“It’s too late for that,” Puck said, over the rumble of pickup trucks pulling into the lot. “This is my building, too. I’m in.”

“No, you’re not. You stay inside and keep her safe, you understand? And stay the hell away from the windows.”

“Raven!” Rich Stegman yelled from the parking lot. “Come on out. Your time’s up!”

Beau paused a moment to touch the small bundle on the table, then stepped through the door, closing it carefully behind him.

Outside, the fish house was awash in light, four pickup trucks in the lot, headlights and roof-rack halogens erasing the night.

The same men as before, but not so many. Five loggers in a loose line. Armed, this time.

Stegman looked as if he’d just come from the mill: flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. Unshaven, haggard, red-eyed. Holding a rifle. An expensive one. Weatherby Mark V. Seven-millimeter Magnum. The others were carrying a mix of shotguns and rifles. Hunting guns.

“People tell me you roughed up my dad. Put him in the hospital. I’m gonna finish you for that.” His words were slurred. He’d been drinking. Maybe all of them had.

“Is that why you’re here? I thought it might be about the body under the fish house. Mary Raven.”

“We don’t know anything about that. You’ve been pushing people since the day you got here. Jumping my dad was way over the line.”

“And your pals? Are they all here about your dad, too?”

“They’re my backup. We know you’re some kind of professional thug. Saw what you did to Tay Maggert. You wouldn’t know what a fair fight is.”

“Sure I do. And this isn’t it. Because if you came to settle up for my mom, Stegman, you’d better send for more help. A lot more.”

“What are you talking about? You’re alone.”

“No he ain’t,” Puck said, easing through the doorway behind Raven, moving to the end of the porch. Carrying Beau’s shotgun.

“You’re backing the wrong side, old man,” Stegman said. “You’re one of us.”

“Been a logger most of my life,” Puck agreed. “Cedar savage and proud of it. But I ain’t no murderin’ rapist, Stegman. And I’m not with you.”

“You can’t get all of us, not even with that thing.”

“It won’t matter,” Erin said, stepping through the doorway, standing beside Beau. “They have Mary Raven’s body now, Mr. Stegman. Your father has already told the police how she died and who was involved—”

“Hey, now hold on a damn minute!” one of the loggers said, lowering his rifle, backing away. “I had no part in that. I’m out.”

“The rest of you best do the same,” Puck said. “The police are on their way. You might get past what happened to Mary Raven. It was a long time ago. But only if you back off now. Lay ‘em down, boys. Go home. It’s over.”

And it worked. After a moment’s hesitation, a second logger backed away, then another.

“No!” Stegman roared, shouldering his rifle. “Damn you, Raven, I should have killed you the first day!”

Beau wheeled, pushing Erin aside, clawing for his pistol as gunfire exploded. Stegman’s first shot went wild, whistling past Beau’s head as his weapon came up, too late — then the shotgun’s savage blast ripped into Stegman, smashing him to the pavement in a tangled heap, his rifle spinning out of his hands, clattering across the concrete.

A moment of stunned silence, then the loggers broke and ran. Scrambling into their pickups, tearing out of the lot as a police cruiser roared in, siren howling. Chabot and Dan Shea piled out. Shea hurried to the deck as the constable knelt beside Stegman, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing. Chabot rose, his hand on his gun butt. “You on the porch. Put that shotgun down. Now.”

Puck seemed surprised he was still holding the stubby weapon. Lowering it to the deck, he backed away from it.

“Mr. Paquette—”

“Get the hell away from me, Raven. I’m done with you. None of this had to happen.” Puck turned and walked unsteadily toward the end of the deck, staring blindly into the darkness over the bay.

Raven started after him but Shea grasped his arm. “Let him be. He’s upset but he’s a tough old bird. He’ll feel different tomorrow.”

“No, he’s right,” Beau said, helping Erin up. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come back. But I’m not sorry. All these years, I thought she abandoned me. When my grandfather said she ran off, I didn’t understand. She was my mom and I loved her. It didn’t make sense. Now it does.

“But Puck’s right, it’s a high price to pay. Maybe too high. It’s finished, Mr. Shea. Thank your men for their work, send me a bill.”

“Hold on, Mr. Raven, we should talk about this. I’ll admit I thought remodeling this place was nuts at first, but you were right. It can really be something special.”

“Not to me. Not anymore.”

“I understand that, but you can’t just walk away from it, either. If we leave it half-finished it’ll be ruined. This old building has stood a hundred years, it deserves better.”

“So did Mary Raven. We’re done here, Mr. Shea. Collect your crew and go. You’re fired.”

It took the state police most of the day to gather the evidence and complete their interviews. Four loggers were arrested in the death of Mary Raven. Puck would have to testify at the coroner’s inquest but there were no formal charges against him. The county prosecutor ruled Stegman’s death a justifiable homicide.

Shea tried talking to Raven again but it was no use. It was truly over for him. Finished.

First light the next morning, Puck and Shea packed up their gear and checked out of the motel. Their crew was already pulling out, a convoy of work vans and pickups, heading home to Valhalla.

And none too soon. The storm had been gathering strength during the night, the temperature dropping to zero like a rock as a fierce cold front moved in. In the hills above the village, the pines were already glistening Christmas white. Branches rimed with frost, unable to flex in the wind, were snapping like gunfire in the forest.

“Pull over,” Puck said suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” Shea asked, easing the truck onto the shoulder.

“Will you look at that,” the old man breathed. From the roadside they had a panoramic view of the village and the bay beyond it.

A northern miracle.

Sometime during the night, the temperature and winds had fallen together and worked their wintry magic.

Wolf Woman Bay had frozen over.

From the shore to the horizon, the surface was a single, glittering sheet of ice. White as a wedding gown, dusted with diamonds.

But not for long. Mountainous storm clouds were rolling in off the big lake, looming over the northern shore, marching inland, their shadows darkening the hills.

“Gonna be a serious blow,” Shea said. “We’re clearing out of here just in time.”

“Not hardly,” Puck growled. “Way late, if you ask me. Wish to God we’d never heard of this place.”

In the heart of the village below there was a sudden flash, then another. A streak of flames raced along the porch of the fish house, climbing up the walls. In seconds the front of the building was engulfed. And even at that distance, they could see a single dark figure backing away from the blaze as the fire took hold.

“My God,” Shea said, grabbing his cell phone, “he’s torching his own damn building.” Puck seized his wrist.

“Let it be, Danny. It’s his house.”

“But he’s letting it burn!”

“What else can he do? Couldn’t live there or give it back to the town. It’s better this way. Finally over and done with.”

“Maybe you’re right. But that’s one hell of an expensive gesture. And it’s a damn shame.”

Far below, Beau Raven stood like a stone, watching his dream burn down to the waterline. A few townspeople gathered but kept a wary distance. No one tried to stop him.

As if answering the madness in the village, the northern gale unleashed its fury over the bay. Storm winds howled out of hills and across the ice, snow devils spinning wildly ahead, keening like a pack of ghost wolves.

The rising storm whipped the blazing fish house into an inferno. Sparks and cinders hurtling upward in a pillar of smoke, towering high above the bay.

Writhing and swirling in the wind.

Like a Wolf Woman.

Dancing.

Copyright © 2005 by Doug Allyn.