Envy the Night

15

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Frank had no intention of watching the Matteson island—no conscious intention anyhow. When he got the boat in the water and the motor fastened onto the transom, his only thought was of taking a ride, seeing the lake again.

He made it all of five minutes with that as the morning’s lone goal. Out of the little bay and around the sandbar—the lake was still high enough that he probably could have gone right over the top of the bar, but old habits guided him around it—and then, just after he hit the main body of the lake, he opened up the throttle and pointed toward the Four Islands. Past them and around the point, out into the more desolate stretches of the lake, was the Matteson place. He had to see it. Just a look.

It was twenty minutes with the little outboard running at full throttle before the island came into view. There were so many islands out here that it could get confusing; half of them looked like the shore from a distance, and then you’d be around them and into a bay that looked big enough to be the main portion of the lake and suddenly you were damn lost.

Toward the northernmost reaches of the Willow the lake became more desolate, and tucked into the eastern shore was an area called Slaughterhouse Bay, so named because of the liberal collection of stumps and dead trees that protruded out of the water and could easily and swiftly ruin a boat. Navigating among the dozens of stumps, even at slow speeds, was treacherous, and though Frank and his father had always assumed it would be a treasure trove of pike and perhaps bass, they’d never taken a good fish out of the bay. It was an eerie spot, particularly at dusk, when the partially submerged trees blended with long shadows and made the place look almost like a Florida swamp.

Skirting the bay and its stumps by several hundred yards, Frank crossed Slaughterhouse Point, approaching the headwaters where the Tomahawk River fed the flowage. Between Slaughterhouse Point on the south side and Muskie Point on the north, lying offshore of hundreds of acres of unbroken forest, he found the Matteson island. After a seven-year absence, maybe it should have been difficult to locate, but he didn’t have any trouble. The place was burned deep in his memory.

Although there were dozens of good-sized islands on the flowage, few would have been hospitable to development even if not state owned. The waters in the flowage fluctuated too much; in a low-rain year the lake was responsible for feeding much of the Wisconsin River valley, and the dam would be opened to the point that the lake level would dip as much as much ten feet below the norm. A high-rain year, they’d close the dams up and the lake would rise dramatically, creating an ever-changing landscape that turned islands into mainland one summer and partially submerged them the next spring. The Matteson place was an exception due both to the high bluffs that bordered it and its placement in the middle of the lake. The water would never reach the ground level upon which the cabin was built, and any major recession simply expanded the beach below the bluffs.

He passed the island on the west side, keeping about a hundred feet out, saw the roof of the cabin and two of the no trespassing signs, then circled and was ready to head back when he saw the woman.

She was walking out into the lake, waist deep now, testing the footing and moving slowly. What in the world was she thinking, going for a swim in this lake in April? Even though the air temperature was unseasonably warm, at least ten degrees above normal, the water would be frigid. She didn’t seem concerned, though.

Frank didn’t react to the sight of her, didn’t slow or cut the motor or do anything else that would make a clear show of his interest. Instead, he turned his head and stared straight out over the bow and gave the throttle an extra twist, picking up speed. He took the boat out into the lake, angled away from the island. The day had risen clear and beautiful, the breeze warming as the sun rode higher, everything reminding him of a number of days spent on this water with his father. He’d been ready for the memories today, but now they were sinking away, pushed down by that woman in the water.

She was a beautiful woman. Even from fifty yards out, he’d seen that. Tall and elegant, and from the short look he’d gotten at her body, it probably seemed more suspicious that he had not slowed the boat to stare. She would be used to stares.

Dave O’Connor, or Vaughn, or whoever the hell the gray-haired man really was, did not seem a match for that woman. He was such a strange-looking man, so nervous and awkward. On the other hand, he drove a Lexus and had thousands in cash on him, along with a gun. Maybe she was the sort who was attracted to money or danger.

That was another problem with Vaughn, though. He didn’t seem like a dangerous guy. Even with the gun, even with the duo that had shown up on his heels, he didn’t fit the mold. Those guys at the body shop yesterday had been a different story. Vaughn didn’t seem anything like them or like other dangerous men Frank had known. Didn’t seem anything like his father.

There he was, though, sitting in Devin Matteson’s cabin with a woman who could turn heads from across the lake, two gun-toting badasses in pursuit. Nothing about that scenario felt right to Frank. Not after the time he’d spent with Vaughn yesterday.

He brought the boat around in a circle and ran back across the lake, a little farther out this time. She was leaving the water, and he could see another figure on shore. The distance was too great for a definite identification, but he assumed it was Vaughn.

Down maybe three hundred yards to an osprey nest, then back around for another pass, watching that island. This time he couldn’t see anyone on the beach. They’d gone inside, maybe. Or he’d spooked them. In retrospect, this was a pretty stupid approach; if he wanted to watch them, he should just anchor somewhere and watch them, the way Ezra had yesterday. These continued passes were more likely to attract attention. His father would have pitched him overboard if he’d been here to witness it.

Enough with the half-assed surveillance attempt. They were gone, and he’d already made one pass too many. Better to continue on, leave those two to their own affairs and hope his didn’t coincide with them again. Nora Stafford had left his cabin with a measure of uncertainty, but he suspected what she planned to do now was simply get that Lexus off her property and leave the Mitsubishi in the woods. As he’d told her, there was a good chance it would still be there long after Vaughn left. If not, he’d pay for the rusted old heap himself. It was a better option than calling the police out to the Matteson place and attempting to repossess the vehicle. The less interaction Nora had with Devin Matteson’s associates, the better.

He found himself alone in North Bay, no other boat in sight, and cut the motor. The flowage would never seem busy, but during fishing season there would be plenty of other people out and about. Today, though, it was empty.

The sun was unhindered by cloud, and he pulled his shirt off so he could feel it on his skin, take in this moment and this place. They’d caught a lot of fish out here, shared a lot of laughs.

A harsh ringing spoiled the silent day then, sounding louder on the water than it ever would back on land. He couldn’t believe he got cell phone reception out here. That damn tower that had irked his father so much was doing its job. He took the phone out, saw the same number he’d dialed the previous night to leave his message for Nora. She was back at her body shop.

“Hello?”

Static and garbled words, Frank catching no meaning at all. He took the phone away from his ear, looked at the display again. Still connected, but showing just one bar, a weak signal. Okay, maybe the tower really wasn’t anything but an eyesore. He tried again.

“Nora? I can’t hear you. Nora?”

More garbled words, but this time he caught a few. Something about a tracking device. Fighting a surge of frustration, he asked her to slow down and repeat herself. Instead, the call was disconnected. Perfect.

He sat down in the boat and looked out across the water, then sighed and turned back to the motor, adjusted the choke and pulled the cord, brought it thundering to life. He didn’t have a clue what that call had been about, and until he did, anything pleasant about this morning was ruined. He’d go back to the cabin, call Nora, see what the hell was going on.

“Damn it.” Nora smacked the phone with her palm, turned it back on, tried again. This time it didn’t even ring, just rolled over to a message saying the mobile user was unavailable. She wondered if he’d caught any of what she said. No way to know. Okay, what now? She wasn’t ready to go the police with Jerry’s story, not until she’d had a chance to run all of this by Frank, hear his opinion. He knew more about these guys than she did. It would be great if she could get him to come into town, talk things through, but Frank’s source of transportation was sitting in the back of her tow lot, so he wouldn’t be making any more surprise appearances. It was a long drive out to his cabin, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“Jerry.” She walked out of the office and into the shop. He was standing over his toolbox, next to the Spraybake paint booth. Outside the day had to be warming, because it was growing stuffy in here despite the concrete block walls and corrugated metal ceiling that usually helped keep it cool.

“Yeah?” Jerry had kept his eyes away from hers ever since he’d told her about the man named AJ, and now he stared at the floor.

“I’m going to get Frank and bring him down here.”

“He the kid?”

“Yes.” Didn’t seem like any kid to her, but if that’s how Jerry recognized him, fine. “I want him to be down here when we talk to the police. Like I said, he’s got some ideas that they need to hear.”

Jerry frowned and spun a ratchet in his hand, the whirring clicks loud in the quiet room. “What sort of ideas has he got?”

“He thinks he might know something about who these guys are, and who they work with.”

“How?”

She lifted her hands. “I don’t know, Jerry. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. He also claims to know where the guy who drove that Lexus is staying. And now I’ve got to leave and pick him up so we can talk to the police.”

“All right. I’ll get this car put back together as much as I can, so they can tow it.”

“I’d rather you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I don’t want anyone left alone in the shop.” She tried to put proper concern into her voice, but only a portion of it was for Jerry’s well-being.

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Jerry, I’d really prefer—”

“You don’t think you can trust me.” He straightened and looked at her for the first time, defiant. “That’s what’s going on, isn’t it? Before I told you about the deal that guy cut me at the bar, you were ready to leave me here, go down to see Mowery. Told me that we needed this Lexus back in one piece fast, for the cops. Now why has that changed?”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then his face softened and his shoulders sagged.

“I’m sorry, Nora. You don’t even know. I can see where you wouldn’t think real well of me right now. You and I, we’ve had our problems. But I’ll tell you this—ain’t a man in this world I respect more than your daddy. Not a one. And the reason I’m still here is I know it’s what he’d want me to do. Help you out, keep things running till he gets back on his feet. It’s not just about the shop, it’s about you. I wanted to make sure you were okay, too. Always did. So when you tell me about last night . . . about these bastards walking in here and treating you like that . . . maybe you don’t see how personal that is to me. Okay? And all I can say is, I’m sorry.”

Though Jerry asked about Bud’s condition constantly, Nora had never been entirely honest with him in her reports. One reason was that her father had absolutely no memory of Jerry, and she knew that would hurt him. Now she wished he could remember Jerry. Bud would have liked this story.

“I appreciate everything you just said, Jerry. And I know I haven’t been a real easy transition for you. Let’s not worry about it, okay? You get the Lexus put back together, and I’ll bring Frank Temple down, and then the three of us will talk things out and call the police.”

He tipped two fingers off his forehead in a little salute and turned back to the car. She crossed the shop, stepped out the side door, and pulled it shut behind her, making sure that it locked.

When she was gone, Jerry got to work. He started with the hood, which he’d removed completely since it was damaged beyond repair. A day earlier, he’d have just tried to jam the bent piece of metal into the backseat with as many other loose parts as possible, tell Nora that it didn’t matter what condition the car was in if they were just transferring possession to the police. After her story, though, no chance. He still knew how to bust ass, how to do a job right, and after hearing what had happened, he’d be doing a lot more of it. Wasn’t his fault, he understood that, but it didn’t do much to ease the guilt. Fact was, while he was drinking beers and cutting a deal to sell equipment that wasn’t his, Nora was back here with some bastard shoving her into a wall. If the kid hadn’t showed up when he did . . . Jerry didn’t like to think it through much beyond that point.

He wrestled the banged-up hood back into place on the car, fastened it as tight as it would go. The damage kept it from closing all the way, but it was attached and would stay on. By the time he was done with that, a good sweat was working its way across his scalp.

“Too damn hot,” he said aloud. He didn’t want the shop opened up like they kept it during the week, let people think they could stop by with a car, but having some fresh air wouldn’t hurt, either. A crack in the overhead door should do the trick. He crossed to the garage door opener and hit the button, let the big door rise about two feet off the floor, and hit the button again, freezing it there. Already he could feel a breeze shove through, sliding over his feet. That would help.

It was a pain in the ass putting a car back together without assistance, but Jerry had gotten better at that in the last few months. Nora was always trying to help, and, to be fair, usually could help, but he preferred to do things himself. To fasten the bumper onto the front of the car, he got one side lined up and bolted loosely, then walked into the paint booth and retrieved a rack they used for drying parts, brought it out, and set it up under the bumper in a way that kept the thing level and positioned well enough that he could get the bolts lined up and tightened. He dragged the creeper over, hitched up his pants, and settled down with his knees and face pointed up at the ceiling. Using his heels, he shoved backward, and the creeper slid under the car so he could get at the bumper bolts, leaving only his lower body exposed.

It was dark under the car, and he had to feel with his fingers to get the wrench in place. Once he had it set the procedure was simple enough, working the wrench with a practiced motion. He’d been on his back under a car since well before he could drive one, watching his daddy labor over a fastback Mustang that he’d bought wrecked, with visions of restoring it to Steve McQueen quality. He’d never gotten it done, but he’d hooked his son on cars. Thirty years later, Jerry was still with it.

He got the bolts on the driver’s side fastened and was working the creeper over to the passenger side when he heard the overheard door rattle ever so gently. It was just a slight shake, one that could have been from the wind, but when he turned his head to look he saw two feet. Someone was walking the length of the door while Jerry lay there on his back and watched. Someone in polished black boots. Jerry knew those boots. He’d seen them tapping a soft beat off a bar stool not twenty-four hours earlier.

The son of a bitch was back. This time he didn’t have a friend in Jerry, either; what he was going to have was a wrench upside his head. Jerry had extended his feet, ready to use his heels to pull himself forward and out from under the car, when he saw a hand appear next to the boots, and then a knee. AJ was coming inside. Crawling under the door and coming inside.

He was a coward for doing it, knew this well, but Jerry pushed with his heels instead of pulling, slid all the way under the Lexus. There was something about this that took him from angry to scared in one blink. What was the guy thinking, crawling into the shop like that? They’d agreed to meet at Kleindorfer’s hours from now. So why violate the plan, take this sort of risk?

Resting on his back on the creeper, his nose a few inches from the rear transfer case, Jerry kept his head rolled to the left so he could see his visitor’s approach. AJ crawled under the door and straightened up, and then all Jerry could see was his feet as he walked into the shop. Then the feet passed out of his field of vision and he was reliant upon only his ears, listening to the slow claps of boot heels on concrete.

He held his breath in his chest like a dear secret as the boots came and went again in his sight line. AJ seemed to have made a full circle of the shop, was now probably standing in front of the Lexus. Peering into the office, maybe, seeing that it was dark, seeing that the place was empty. Now, if he’d just crawl back under that door and walk away, Jerry could get up and lower the garage door, lock the place up tight, and give the cops a call. Nora hadn’t planned a course of action yet, but this was the second time one of these bastards had broken into the shop, and that was crime enough. Even if Jerry took some heat from the cops, they needed to pick these boys up. Somebody had to answer for Mowery.

There was the metallic bang of a gear engaging, and then a loud hum as the garage door lowered and thumped to a stop against the floor, closed tight. The sound made Jerry lift his head too far and too fast, his forehead making solid contact with the transfer case. He blinked hard and dropped his head again. Why had AJ lowered the door? What the hell was he thinking of doing now?

“You going to stay under that car all day, Mr. Dolson?”

The voice drawled out of the air above him; Jerry could still see no boots to tell him where the man was standing. He was caught. Damn it. Now a dose of embarrassment mingled with his fear. Hiding under the car like a little girl under her bed. That wasn’t right, and he should’ve have known it from the start, met this bastard on his feet and with the wrench in his hand. Using the self-reproach as fuel, Jerry slammed his heels onto the floor and pulled himself forward, out from under the car and right into the barrel of a gun.