Envy the Night

5

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Ezra Ballard, a few hundred yards out on the lake, spotted the blue car shortly after noon and knew that the two on the island were no longer alone. The car, some sort of beat-up Jeep, was parked in the woods across from the island cabin—a cabin that had, for almost two days, been home to a gray-haired man and a blond woman. Technically, that was Ezra’s business. He didn’t own the cabin or the island, but for many years he’d been entrusted with their care. Same with the cabin down on the point, less than two miles away. Two cabins that, at least in Ezra’s mind, still belonged to men who’d been buried long ago.

Twice a year the Temple boy mailed Ezra a short note with five hundred dollars inside. The note always read Thanks for keeping an eye on the place; the money was always in five one-hundred-dollar bills, the envelope always void of a return address, but a phone number would be included on the note. Ezra would spend the cash on whatever expenses he might encounter keeping the cabin in good shape and save the rest. Seven years young Frank had kept that up, and though Ezra wondered when he’d return to the place, he never wondered if. The boy—hell, he wasn’t a boy anymore, was he?—would be back, but not until he was ready. Maybe Ezra would still be around, maybe not. Something like that, it took time to make your peace with it.

Circumstances with the Temple cabin had been consistent, and Frank’s boy seemed to understand the situation, had made no effort to contact a Realtor or a lawyer. The Matteson cabin, here on the island, was a different matter. After Dan died, Ezra hadn’t heard a word from the family. Sent a few letters, made a few phone calls, and finally received a curt order to ready the place for sale—this from the son, Devin. When Ezra explained that the island couldn’t be sold—it was part of a legacy trust that would either remain with the family or revert to the state, and good luck convincing a judge to break that—Devin swore at him and hung up. Never called again. This was before Frank Temple had taken his own life and Devin’s role in that situation became clear, before a few conversations with Frank’s son that Ezra probably never should have allowed to take place, before a final call that Ezra had made to Devin.

In the years that followed that last call, Ezra had never heard from Devin or anyone else about the island. He hadn’t expected to, though. His message had been succinct enough: If Devin came back, Ezra would kill him. For seven years it seemed that Devin had believed the promise, and he damn well should have. Ezra was not a man given to idle threats, and he certainly was not a man with light regard for killing. Not anymore.

Though the cabin had sat empty for years, Ezra kept the place in shape, paying property taxes and all expenses out of his own pocket. Nobody other than Ezra had been inside until this week. Just two days ago a bizarre phone message had been left, someone claiming to be Devin telling Ezra the cabin needed to be “opened up for guests.”

The call had sucked the breath from Ezra’s lungs, the brazenness of it, the audacity almost more than he could get his head around. He’d never expected to see Devin again, believed that the island cabin would sit empty until after Ezra was gone from the world, and even in the corner of his mind that recognized there was at least a chance that Devin might show up, he never imagined a call like that. So casual, so flip. A taunt, like after all these years he’d decided Ezra was a harmless old man.

Ezra had called Frank’s son—probably a poor choice but, again, there was a promise to be kept—and then visitors had arrived at the island, but Devin was not among them. Not yet.

Now there was this second vehicle. With opening weekend of the fishing season a mere week away, Ezra had decided to run some of the bays and islands, getting depth readings and trying to find new spots to catch walleye. It was on his first run across the lake that he’d noticed the car, and now he’d spent most of the afternoon anchored off the opposite shore, using a pair of binoculars to watch the island. His first idea was that there had been a new arrival. That changed around midafternoon, when the gray-haired man moved the car.

He and the woman had arrived in a Lexus SUV that had disappeared this morning. Now the gray-haired man took his boat back across the inlet, got into the blue car, and drove it out of the mud and back up the hill. At the top of the hill, he went off the road and into the grass, right into the pines. Drove it as far into the trees as he could, till the boughs swept over the roof and pushed against the side of the car to the point that he had trouble opening the door to get back out. Only reason you parked a car like that was to hide it. He’d gone too far, though; the car was hidden from the logging road, but he’d driven it right up to the edge of the tree line, so the sun caught it and reflected the glare of glass and metal across the lake. Hard to see unless you were on the water. Hard to see unless you were Ezra.

Ezra had been on the Willow for most of forty years now, taking fish out of the lake’s waters and deer and bear out of its surrounding woods. Best guide in Oneida County, that was what people said. The people were right, too. At least when it came to hunting. Out in the woods with a rifle in hand, there wasn’t anybody better than Ezra. Thing was, he preferred fishing. He was good at it, sure, but not the natural he seemed to be when it came to stalking prey with a gun.

This was about to become a busy time of year, too. The season opened for walleye, pike, bass, and the other game fish on the first Saturday of May, which was in one week. From that point on, Ezra had a full calendar. It was no time to worry about a cabin that hadn’t been used in years. But there sat that damn car, shining against the blanket of trees, inviting everybody and their brother to slow a boat and stare at it and wonder if someone was using the Matteson island. Questions would be headed his way, and maybe he should have some answers ready when they did. Problem was, this gray-haired guy clearly wanted that car hidden, and of the men Ezra had known who hid cars, exactly zero of them were guys he wanted to deal with.

It being Friday, and a full workload arriving out of the blue like that, Nora was in a good mood as the afternoon wore down. Good enough mood that after she’d towed the Jeep in, she picked up lunch for Jerry, one of those Angus burgers he favored. An obvious peace offering, and one that seemed to make Jerry feel awkward, shuffling around and trying to stay mad at her for that oh-so-demanding request to do his job correctly. They didn’t talk much for the rest of the day, but there were no blowups, either.

She spent the afternoon with the computer, going over finances. It was her own laptop, and she’d devoted countless hours to slowly transferring all of the paper files Bud Stafford had used. Tedious work, yes, but now they were more organized, more efficient—and lacking enough jobs to make it pay off.

Jerry had given her his damage assessment on the Lexus. “Uh, you got your quarter-panel issues, you know, and you gotta get down in there, too, plus there’s the light and your, uh, you know the bumper issues, plus there’s the airbag and your, uh . . .”

From that she managed to cull an actual estimate, printed it out, nice and official. She was reviewing it when someone pulled into the front parking lot, got out of the car without shutting the engine off, and opened the office door. Four o’clock on Friday afternoon was an unusual time for business.

The visitor came through the door and stopped, ignoring Nora to look around the room with open curiosity, as if he were on a museum tour. Big guy, too, a fancy knit T-shirt stretched over his chest and shoulders, loose jacket over that.

“Can I help you?” she said.

He had a bizarre silver belt buckle, a sort of rippled pattern, like latticework. Not ridiculously large like some of those western things, but ornate, flashy. Nora had always found that a man who believed a belt buckle should be a fashion statement was not her kind of man.

“I hope I’m in the right place,” the guy said. “Friend of mine called and asked me to grab some things out of his car. I think he left it here . . .”

“What’s his name?”

The guy just smiled at her. Patient, as if she’d asked a worthless question but he was willing to ignore it.

“The car’s a Lexus SUV.”

“I didn’t ask for the car’s description. I asked for the guy’s name.”

“Vaughn,” the guy said. There was a hitch in his voice, though, like a game show contestant who second-guessed his answer at the last minute.

The longer he stood in the office, the more space he seemed to fill. She had trouble meeting his eyes as she shook her head.

“I’m sorry. Nobody named Vaughn has a car in here.”

“I’m rather certain he does. Perhaps there’s been some confusion over the name.”

“If there has been, then the car’s owner will need to come in and explain that to me. I’m certainly not allowed to release personal effects from a vehicle, sir.”

“How about we give him a call, together? You can ask . . .”

Dave O’Connor had left no phone number—or any other form of contact information—but even if he had, Nora wouldn’t have called. O’Connor had been weird enough, but this guy was almost threatening.

“No,” she said. “If the car’s owner—whose name is not Vaughn—calls me and explains this, then we’ll see how we can proceed. Until then, I’m afraid not.”

The guy’s eyes darkened and he seemed ready to object when the office door opened and Jerry ambled in, a socket wrench in one hand. He gave Nora and the guy a casual glance and then knelt in front of the little refrigerator she kept in the office, pulled out a can of Dr Pepper, and cracked it open before walking back into the shop. The visitor watched him go.

“It sounds to me like you might have the wrong body shop,” Nora said.

For a long moment he didn’t answer, just stared at the door Jerry had walked through as if it were something that called for real study. Then he nodded.

“Of course. That must be it. Apologies.”

He gave her a mock bow, lifting his hand to his forehead, then opened the front door and walked back into the parking lot. She stood up and went to the window in time to see him climb in the passenger side of a black sedan. That was why he’d left the engine running—he wasn’t alone, wasn’t driving. She got a clear look at the car as it pulled out to the street, a black Dodge Charger, one of the newer models. She’d made the mistake of complimenting the look, only to have Jerry ridicule her. Nora, it’s a four-door. That ain’t a Charger, it’s a joke.

She couldn’t read the license plate, but the colors told her it was from out of state. Wait, those colors were familiar. A smear of orange in the middle of a white plate with some green mixed in. She’d just seen that on the Lexus. Florida.

It wasn’t five yet, but she turned the lock on the front door as she stood there gazing out the window. The odd feeling that had convinced her to get Dave O’Connor out of her shop and back on the road without any of the normal procedures had just returned, only this guy with the belt buckle made it swell to the edge of fear. He’d called him Vaughn. She had no proof that the Lexus driver’s name was actually Dave O’Connor. All that cash, the hurry he was in, the gun Frank had seen, none of it suggested anything good. Add a fake name to the mix, though, and she was beginning to feel stupid. She’d gone for the money despite all the obvious objections, let the guy dictate the situation. It wasn’t easy to imagine her father handling this in the same way.

Nora walked out of the office and back into the shop, watched Jerry working on the Lexus. The car was empty. Dave O’Connor had cleared all his things out when he left, including that handgun in the glove compartment. So he hadn’t called someone to come pick anything up.

“Jerry,” she said, “can you give me a minute?”

She wanted to talk to him, explain the situation and ask if he’d found anything in the car, more cash or guns or, well, anything. But when he turned around he had that irritated sneer on his face, ready to argue or mock her or do anything but listen.

“Well?” he said. “You got another problem needs me to fix it?”

“No, Jerry. It’s just . . . I was thinking . . .”

“Hope you didn’t hurt yourself.” That passed for humor to him, real wit.

“I was thinking you can go home early,” she said. “That’s all. It’s Friday, and we got some nice work in today, and you’ve done a good job this afternoon. So go on and get out of here. Enjoy the weekend.”

She walked away as the first flush of gratitude mixed with shame crept onto his cheeks.