Mystery

Grand Forks was a small town twenty miles from Eagle Lake, and because of travelers from Canada as well as Mill Walk, its little airport had a Customs and Immigration section, located in a concrete block shed adjacent to the terminal. Captain Mornay escorted his passengers and their bags to the Customs desk, where the inspector greeted him as Ted and chalked their bags without bothering to open them. Immigration stamped their crimson Mill Walk passports with tourist visas.

“I suppose Ralph sent a driver?” said Mrs. Spence, managing to sound offended by the necessity of asking the question.

“He generally does that, yes, ma’am,” the pilot said. “If you’ll take your bags through that glass door just ahead and take them into the main terminal, you should find the driver waiting for you.”

The customs inspector and the Immigration official were staring raptly at Mrs. Spence’s long legs, as was a young man in a brown leather jacket sprawled out in a chair against one of the grey walls of the shed.

Mrs. Spence covered most of her handsome face with the enormous sunglasses and swept toward the glass door, carrying nothing but a handbag.

“Enjoy your stay,” the pilot said, and turned away to walk toward the grinning man in the leather jacket.

Mr. Spence picked up the Papa Bear suitcase and went after his wife.

One of Tom’s cases had a long strap, which he put over a shoulder. He picked up his other, heavier suitcase by the handle, and with his left hand took the leash of the Mama Bear suitcase.

“Oh, let me do it,” Sarah said. “After all, she’s my awful mother, not yours.” She took the thin strap from his hand, and Tom rearranged his own cases to balance the weight, and they went through the glass door.

Between the jet and the customs shed Tom had been too preoccupied with Sarah Spence to notice anything else except the freshness of the air and the unusual intensity of the sky; in the shorter distance between the customs shed and the terminal building, he felt the edge in the air, the hint of chill at the center of its warmth, and realized that he was thousands of miles farther north than he had ever been before. The sky here made the sky over Mill Walk seem to have been washed a thousand times. Sarah opened the door to the terminal with her hip, and he went in before her.

Mr. and Mrs. Spence stood at the opposite end of the terminal, talking with a stocky young man in his early twenties with a chauffeur’s hat jammed low on his forehead and a dark blue sweatshirt that bulged over his belly. All three scowled at Tom and Sarah.

“Come on, kids,” said Mr. Spence. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Give him my bag, Sarah,” Mrs. Spence said.

The young man came forward and held out a thick hand for the strap of Mrs. Spence’s suitcase. Mr. Spence coughed into his fist, and the young man picked up the big case with his other hand. He began moving toward the door.

A long black Lincoln sat at the curb. A policeman in a tight blue jacket and a Sam Browne belt jumped up from the fender. The chauffeur loaded the bags into the trunk and came around to open the back door. The Spences got into the back of the car, and Tom climbed into the passenger seat.

The Spences began talking to one another as the Lincoln rolled away from the curb. Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. Mrs. Spence was saying things she wanted the chauffeur to hear, and now and then some of the words blurred together. Tom opened his eyes, and caught the chauffeur glancing at him stonily.

They came out on a four-lane macadam highway. Thirty-foot pines crowded up to the gravel shoulder on both sides. Little tourist motels and fishing camps appeared at wide intervals, set deep down narrow gravel drives in the spreading trees as if far back in caves. Hand-painted signs shouted their names to the empty highway: MUSKIE LODGE and GILBERTSON’S HARMONY LAKE CAREFREE CABINS, LAKEVIEW RESORT, and BOB & SALLY RIDEOUT’S AAA FISHING CAMP & GUIDES. Little bars and bait shops sat back from the highway in sandy parking lots filled with old cars, LAKE DEEPDALE—DEEPDALE ESTATES, read a larger, professionally painted sign beside a glistening asphalt road on the right side of the highway. YOUR KEY TO THE NORTH COUNTRY! Dead raccoons lay flattened on the highway like overgrown cats.

“Jerry,” said Mrs. Spence, who had fallen asleep for several minutes, “is Mr. Buddy at the compound yet?”

Tom turned his head to look at the scowling profile beside him. The chauffeur’s right eye drifted toward him. He had small scars like tucks in his skin beneath the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, Buddy’s there. Got in two weeks ago with a bunch of friends.”

“I thought you called him ‘Mr. Buddy,’ ” said Sarah’s mother, sounding a little put out by the chauffeur’s tone.

“Some of the older help call him that,” the man said. The shadowed eye drifted toward Tom again.

“Do you good to meet some of Buddy’s friends, Sarah,” her father told her. “You’re liable to be seeing a lot of these people.”

“Most of ’em left Friday,” Jerry said. “Drove ’em to the airport myself. Had to spend about a hour cleaning out this car. One of those dopes drank about half a bottle of Southern Comfort in ten minutes, blew his guts apart right back where you’re sitting.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Spence. “Where who is sitting?”

“I had to drive him back to the compound. Buddy threw him off the dock to clean him off.”

“Oh, my.” Tom heard the rustle of Mrs. Spence moving around to inspect the seat.

“You ever try to clean puke off cloth?” asked the driver. “The Cadillac’s got fabric seats, I think that’s why Ralph always sends the Lincoln for Buddy’s pals.”

“You must see a lot of Buddy,” said Mr. Spence in a bright, hollow voice.

“Well, I do a lot of other stuff for Ralph most of the year. I hang out with Buddy when he’s around.” The eye shifted toward Tom again.

“Haven’t we met?” Tom asked.

The eye seemed to widen and flare like the eye of a horse.

“I’m Tom Pasmore. I came to your house once.”

“Never happened,” Jerry said.

“Your friends Nappy and Robbie chased me around the corner and out into the traffic on Calle Burleigh, and I got hit by a car. They must have thought I was dead.”

Shocked and outraged noises came from the back seat.

Jerry smiled at him, reminding Tom of the glassy eyes and needle teeth of the mounted fish in the Grand Forks airport. Was this how you stirred things up? Tom felt his face grow warm. It seemed to him that he was fading from view beneath the weight of Jerry’s smile.

Jerry turned back to the road and drove into a tunnel of dark green. They had not passed or met another car since leaving the airport. A large white sign proclaimed the existence somewhere back in the woods of the WHITE BEAR NORTHERN INN & LODGINGS. A polar bear with a red napkin around its neck tipped a top hat.

“Oh, the White Bear!” said Mrs. Spence. “Is the food still so wonderful at the White Bear?”

“We generally eat in the compound,” Jerry said.

“Lately, I’ve been wondering about what happened to the dog,” Tom said.

The little scars beneath Jerry’s mouth tightened as if the stitches had been pulled taut. His lips moved, and the eye drifted toward Tom.

“What?” Tom said.

“The dog died,” Jerry said in a barely audible voice.

“Oh, it can be a blessing when an old dog passes away,” said Mrs. Spence. “You hate to see them suffer.”

Eventually they passed a small brown sign with the words EAGLE LAKE—PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING—NO SOLICITATIONS burned into the wood in ornate curving letters, and Jerry turned the car onto a bumpy narrow track between tall pines and oaks.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Sarah said.

Boughs scraped the top of the car.