Thunder Bay

THIRTY-NINE

Shortly before eight P.M., Pollard declared, “Time to get ready.”

The heavy rain persisted and, along with it, a stiff wind that kept the lake churning. The leading edge of the storm had passed long ago, but what followed proved not much better. We stood up and struggled to steady ourselves.

Schanno fell into Pollard. Though she was much smaller, she caught him.

“I thought you said the wind was going to die down,” he complained.

“Quoting the radio,” she replied. “Obviously they were wrong. You want to cancel the landing party?”

Schanno looked at me.

“We’re going,” I said.

Pollard lifted one of the seats and, from the storage compartment beneath, hauled out a large canvas duffle bag with STEARNS printed on the side.

“What’s that?” Schanno said.

“An inflatable dinghy.”

“I thought you said you were going to take the sailboat in.”

“If the wind and the lake calmed. They haven’t. I don’t want to take a chance on running aground. The dinghy will be safer.”

“In these waves?” Schanno said.

“We’re less than a hundred yards from shore. Once you’re in the shelter of the inlet, it should be easy.”

“Once we’re in the inlet. What happened to you being part of this?”

“The dinghy’s designed for two adults, or six hundred and fifty pounds. I think you three can probably fit. Four would be impossible. Besides, in this weather, I need to stay with the boat.”

She waited, as if anticipating further argument from Schanno.

“You don’t have to come, Wally,” I said. “I’ll take Meloux to the island.”

“I’m coming.”

“Cork, there’s an electric air pump in that compartment over there,” Trinky said. “Would you bring it topside?”

On deck the wind pushed the rain into our faces. I could see the island, charcoal colored in the false twilight of the storm. The shoreline was a rage of foaming waves, but the opening to the inlet was clear and the water beyond looked calm. Pollard unzipped the canvas bag and hauled out the rolled dinghy. She spread it on the deck and attached the hose from the electric air pump to one of the valves. As soon as she started the pump, the flat PVC material began to quiver like an animal coming to life. While Schanno and Pollard inflated the dinghy, I went belowdeck and retrieved the knapsack I’d filled with items from my Bronco before leaving the marina-a small pry bar, glass cutter, screwdriver, hammer, sheathed hunting knife, a couple of flashlights, and binoculars. I’d thought about bringing one of the rifles, but decided against it. I didn’t want things to get out of hand that way. I slipped the hunting knife onto my belt and slung the pack on my back. By the time I got up on deck, the dinghy was ready to go. We eased it over the side, where the waves did their best to snatch it from us. We tossed in the oars, then Pollard and I held to ropes tied to the inflatable’s bow and stern while Schanno climbed in. He grasped the railing and held on to the sailboat as we helped Meloux into the dinghy. Finally, I slid over the side and settled in the bow. Pollard released her rope, and we shoved into a wind that was doing its best to drive us into the open lake. Schanno and I got the oars into the locks and began to row for all we were worth toward Manitou Island.

I played football in high school. I thought I knew what a hundred yards was. That night a hundred yards seemed to stretch into forever. We pulled hard against waves that came at us foaming like mad dogs. In the wind, our bodies acted as sails, and the dinghy resisted fiercely as we fought to go forward. For a long time, we seemed suspended between the sailboat and the shore while the water of Lake Superior broke over the bow, soaking us with its bitter cold. I was tiring, and I figured Schanno, who had a dozen years on me, had to be exhausted. But the big man dug his oars into the lake and put his back into the effort, and together we inched the small boat toward Manitou.

We finally made the inlet. As soon as we rounded the tip of the peninsula, we escaped the waves and the worst of the wind. We found ourselves in a narrow passage twenty yards wide and four times as long. The shoreline was all rock, but as I looked over my shoulder I could see dark pilings and a platform at the far end of the inlet.

“There’s a dock,” I said.

“I see it,” Schanno said.

“How’re you doing, Henry?” I asked.

He looked at me over his shoulder and smiled enormously. “Corcoran O’Connor,” he replied, “I have never been better.”

Unlike the more public landing on the other side of the island, the dock in the inlet had no security kiosk and no lighting. We tied up and climbed out of the dinghy. The lake water had been freezing cold, but the rain and the summer air felt warm against my skin. There was a trail of crushed rock leading into the trees. We could see the lights of the great house glimmering through the sway of branches.

“Lead on, Macduff,” Schanno said.

Deep in the cover of the pine trees, everything was dark enough that a flashlight would have helped, but it would also have given us away. We walked carefully, and as we approached the clearing, we slowed to a creep. We stopped before we broke from the woods. I took the binoculars from my knapsack.

The mansion stood at the center of the clearing. Lights were on inside, on both the first and second floors, but in different wings. Curtains blocked any view of the interior. On the far side of the clearing was what looked like a guesthouse. Lights were on there, too, but the shades were up and the curtains open. Through the windows of the guesthouse, I saw movement, shapes crossing through the light inside. I could see framed pictures on a wall and the polished edge of a baby grand piano. To someone it was home. I studied the big windows of the mansion. They gave away nothing. As I watched, the light went out in one of the second-floor rooms and, a few moments later, the curtain of another flared as the light behind it came on. It didn’t stay on long. A minute later, a light flipped on in another room farther down the hall. Upstairs in the great house, someone was pacing restlessly.

“The police were wrong,” I said. “He’s home.”

“What now?” Schanno asked.

I lowered the binoculars. “You hear any dogs?”

“Just the wind.”

“I want to get around to the other side, see who’s in the guesthouse. You stay here with Henry, okay?”

“What if they spot you?”

“I’ll do what I can to distract and delay them while you see if you can get Henry into Wellington’s house.”

Schanno shook his head. “Better if I do the reconnaissance and you stay with Henry.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been inside Wellington’s place. If you have to move quickly, you have a better idea of the layout. And if I get caught by these guys, what are they going to do? Call the cops? Big deal. You, they could pull that brand-new license of yours.”

What could I say? He made sense.

“I’ll work around the perimeter, keeping to the trees in case they’ve got cameras,” he said. “Be patient. This could take a while.”

I handed him the binoculars. “Morrissey was a killer. I don’t know about these guys, but you be careful, understand?”

“If it’s Benning and Dougherty, Pollard claims they’re a nice couple. They catch me, we’ll talk drapes.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

He hung the binoculars around his neck and turned to start away.

“Thanks, Wally.”

He grinned at me. “You kidding? I’m having the time of my life.”

Henry and I stood in the steady rain watching Schanno vanish among the shifting pines. Water dripped from my eyebrows and the end of my nose. My clothes were soaked. The trees blunted the wind, which was helpful. If the night hadn’t been so warm, we’d have been in trouble.

“You okay, Henry?”

“I have been wet before, Corcoran O’Connor.”

His eyes were on the house. Only fifty yards and the stone wall of the mansion separated him from his son. I wondered how he felt watching the lights go on and off, knowing his son was walking those empty corridors alone. I tried to imagine Wellington, the kind of loneliness that went along with the kind of life he’d made for himself. It left me feeling suffocated.

Schanno returned in less than fifteen minutes.

“Two men,” he said. “One tall, thin, blond. The other stocky, dark. Both midthirties.”

“Benning and Dougherty,” I said. “What were they doing?”

“Watching television, eating popcorn. Very domestic.”

“See any surveillance monitors?”

“Nothing.”

I wiped rainwater from my eyes. “For a man fanatical about his privacy, Wellington’s awfully slack with security.”

“He’s been hiding out here for six years,” Schanno said. “Maybe at some point, rigorous security no longer became necessary. He’s established a reputation. Substitutes virtual dogs for real dogs. Pares down his security force to a gay couple who don’t mind the isolation. Saves a lot of money that way.”

“And with a greeting committee like Morrissey, not many people want to take the chance of coming here unannounced. It fits, but…” I shook my head.

“You don’t like the feel of it?”

“Do you?”

“Why don’t we get inside and ask the man himself. Got a plan for how to do that?”

As a matter fact, I did.