Black Otter Bay (15 page)

As they neared the stark heights of the Ramparts, Marcy asked, “Did something happen to you and Ben the day you hid in the café?”

Abby stopped, leaned back, and looked up at the sheer rock wall ahead of them. Marcy got dizzy when she looked up, lost her footing, and almost fell over. She ended up taking a seat on the rocks a little more abruptly than she would have liked.

“Are you okay?” Abby asked, sitting down cross-legged next to her.

“Sure,” Marcy replied, adding a chuckle at her own expense. “I know you're not supposed to look down if you have a fear of heights, but I didn't know you could get vertigo from looking up, too.” She lay back on the bedrock to get a better view of the Ramparts. “I sure love these warm rocks, though,”
she added, spreading her bare arms out to the sides to capture as much of their radiant heat as possible.

When she sat up again, Marcy studied the jumble of rocks and boulders at the base of the Ramparts. The pile of slag had accumulated over many thousands of years, after being broken off the cliff face by the powers of wind, rain, ice, and a never-ending assault from the temperamental surf. She didn't see how Abby intended to get them across all that loose rock, penned in on one side by a 250-foot high wall of rock, and on the other side by the frigid, grasping waves of Lake Superior.

“Ben and I saw something that day you found us in the café,” Abby suddenly blurted.

Marcy looked at her. Abby seemed calm, her dark eyes peering out to sea from under the brim of her baseball cap. She told the story then about the man in the big black car and the body rolled up in a blanket. “I know now that it must have been Rosie,” she concluded.

Marcy reached out to her. “I'm so sorry, Abby. Did Ben see it, too? Are you sure it was Rose?”

Abby nodded. “We were fishing in the bay near her minnow seines. It was the only open water on the whole lake. They found her body there shortly after we left.” She directed an intense stare at Marcy, as if willing her to believe what she said. “She was murdered, Marcy. The man wanted to make it look like an accidental drowning. Maybe a heart attack, I don't know. But the sheriff was right to request an autopsy. I just hope they find something.”

“Who was the man?”

“I have no idea. The car had Illinois plates.”

They sat for a few moments in silence, then, from her sitting position, Abby flung another rock at the lake. She said, “You know, I just remembered, when we ran away there was another vehicle coming down the road. A pickup truck. At the time, I thought it was a local, and maybe he'd confront the man with the body. I didn't get a good look at the driver. But I
haven't heard anything more about it. It's almost like the truck never existed.”

“You ran away?”

“Yeah. Ben was scared, but the man actually saw me. I had to get out of there fast.”

Marcy laughed. “So you're telling me that you weren't scared, too?”

Abby stood up. “Hey, nobody can catch me in the woods.” She eyed the mess of boulders ahead of them. “Come on, let's do this.”

With a huff, Marcy pushed herself to her feet. The going was slow, but not particularly difficult. They climbed up and down over piles of rock. Abby set an easy pace, often hanging back to help Marcy over tricky stretches. A couple times, confronted by slabs of rock the size of small houses, Abby chose to scramble under them, and Marcy followed through the damp, cold, slippery openings. From time to time Abby stopped to scan the rocky escarpment beside them. Marcy had learned her lesson about looking up, but she couldn't help asking, “Why do you keep glancing up there, Abby? I hope you're not looking for a place to climb it.”

“No way. At least, not without ropes and pitons. I just get nervous about some idiot up there throwing rocks over the edge. We have to be ready to take cover.”

“Oh, my God,” Marcy muttered, and when they set out again to finish the trek around the Ramparts, she worked even harder to keep up with Abby.

Once they left the trials of the natural obstacle course behind, they walked side by side again across the flat bedrock coastline. Summer cabins, some of them worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, came into view through the trees up on higher ground. They weren't generally visible from the highway on the other side, so even though she'd lived her whole life in Black Otter Bay, Marcy had never seen many of these homes. From the lakeside, gigantic windows reflected the
sunlight, and massive decks provided owners with million-dollar views.

For a while they walked in silence, admiring the natural grandeur of the coast, as well as the stunning architecture. Then Marcy said, “I still don't get what happened to Ben.”

Abby picked up and threw another skipping stone. Her arm was warmed up now, and she counted eight or nine skips. Then she turned to Marcy. “You have to promise that you won't say a word to anyone about this.”

“Of course.”

Abby studied her with a skeptical frown. “I mean it, Marcy. Ben's life may be at risk. You have to swear you won't say anything to anyone.”

Marcy snapped to attention and held her hand up in a mock Girl Scout pledge. “You got it, Abby. I swear I won't say a word.” She mimicked zipping her lips closed. “I just want to help if I can.”

Abby paused, but soon Marcy figured she'd accepted her word, because the girl pursed her lips, nodded in agreement, and turned away so as not to make eye contact while she spoke. Scanning the stones at her feet for another skipper, she began, “We had to leave our gear behind when we ran away. That's why we didn't have anything with us when you saw us in the café. I went back later that night, but the man had already found it. He got our address out of the backpacks. When he came to get me, only Ben was home, so he took him as insurance.”

“He kidnapped Ben?”

“Yeah. But I'm the one he wants. He called me later to say Ben would be okay if I didn't tell anyone what I saw at the lake.”

“He called to blackmail you? And you believe him?”

Abby nodded. “Sheriff Fastwater told me the man used a stolen cell phone. I saw Ben in the car with him.” She grimaced with worry. “Don't you see? I have no choice, I have to believe him.”

“So, Fastwater knows all about this?”

“Of course he does.” Abby told herself that she wasn't really lying. She had no idea how much the sheriff knew, but he was aware of the phone calls, and he knew she'd been out at the lake. He'd put Rosie's death and Ben's disappearance together, and for all she knew, he probably had even more facts than that to work with.

“But, Abby, if the man murdered Rose . . .”

“It means he'll kill Ben if he has to. I only hope something comes up in the autopsy.”

Marcy shook her head, and with conviction said, “I have to talk to the sheriff.”

Abby grabbed her by the vest. “You promised me.”

Marcy pulled back. The look on Abby's face wasn't so much threatening as pleading. “This is way too big for you, Abby. The FBI is up there in town. They have all sorts of tricks and gadgets to catch people.”

Abby shook her head. “The man said Ben would come home in a few weeks if I didn't tell anyone.”

“And you believe him? Come on, Abby, you said yourself he's a murderer.”

“That's just my point. Don't you see? If I go blabbing on about it, and the police somehow figure it out and close in, he'll dump Ben in a lake somewhere like he did with Rose. Then it's just my word against his.”

Marcy's expression softened. “Abby, you can't be so naïve as to think he'll just let Ben go.”

“What else do I have, Marcy? Even if I wanted to talk, I don't know who he is, much less where to find him.”

“Let the cops handle it. They know how to negotiate these things. They get hostages free all the time.”

“No way, Marcy. I can't risk it. I've thought all that stuff over a million times. If anything went wrong and Ben didn't come home, I'd never forgive myself.” Having made her point, Abby turned and resumed the hike back to town.

Marcy quickly caught up. “If we could just figure out where he's keeping Ben, maybe we could do something.”

Abby stopped so abruptly she almost tripped. “What do you mean, ‘we'?”

“Well, jeez, Abby, now that you've told me the story, I'm kind of a part of the whole thing.” And, she thought, making herself the girl's confidant might take some of the weight off Abby's shoulders. Besides, if any real information came out, she'd have no qualms about going to the sheriff with it. It was one thing to be a friend, but if Abby found herself in any real danger, Marcy wouldn't hesitate to run for help.

“Don't forget—you promised not to tell.”

“I won't. But I don't think we can trust this guy to keep Ben safe. I mean, we have no idea who we're dealing with.”

They walked at a slow, thoughtful pace for the next ten minutes. Marcy questioned Abby about the man, but other than the fact that he was tall and well built, with a tanned complexion, there wasn't much to discuss. “He was a white man, with short, dark hair that stood straight up on top, but he wore sunglasses, so I'm not sure I'd even recognize him again.”

Marcy brainstormed ideas out loud. “The car was from Illinois. Maybe Chicago?”

“Could be. Seems logical.”

“Maybe he's a gangster. I read one time that they have mafia in Chicago.”

Abby laughed. “What in the world would the mafia be doing in Black Otter Bay?”

“Who else would have a reason to murder an old lady?”

“That's what I've been wondering. Why would someone want Rosie out of the way?”

“Maybe she knew something, like the name of a criminal.”

Abby flashed her best teenage sarcastic look. “Again, Marcy, this is Black Otter Bay. What could she possibly have known?”

“First rule of brainstorming, young lady: no idea is a bad idea.”

Marcy was happy to see a grin emerge on Abby's face, and it stayed there while they hiked in silence for a few more minutes. It was apparent that sharing her secret had been a relief to Abby, even though Marcy had no solid advice to offer her young friend. In fact, she really had no idea how she could be of help, but she was willing to listen, and at the first hint of danger, Marcy would run to the sheriff so fast . . .

Abby pointed. “Look, there's Rosie's old boathouse.”

They were approaching the Bengston property, a five-acre slice of land between the highway and the lake with 600 feet of cobblestone shoreline. The old boathouse, a square-logged, hand-scribed structure, was more than a century old. Proof of that was inside, above the doorless opening facing the lake, where the year “1898” was carved in deep, thick numerals. The logs, lengths of twelve– and fourteen-inch-thick pine and cedar, were burnished black by years of abuse by waves and ice. The Bengstons hadn't utilized the building since the death of Randall's father more than thirty years ago. Henry Bengston had been the last commercial fisherman in the area. Over the past three decades, the shifting cobblestone beach had piled up against the boathouse, so that now it protruded out of the shore like a fortified beachhead. Several roof boards were missing, allowing enough light for Abby to point out the date etched over the door.

“Wow,” Marcy said. “I never knew this was here. Did you?”

“Sure. Rosie brought me down here many times. She let me play on the beach. Ben and I used this place as a fort, or sometimes a castle, depending on what game we were playing.”

When she looked around the small interior, Marcy noticed several huge spikes nailed into the logs. At one time used as hooks for Henry Bengston's fishing equipment, the spikes held discarded and long-forgotten marker buoys, rotting netting, and coils of rope. Even open to the sun and weather, the boathouse held a musty odor of decay and neglect.

As Abby ducked back outside, she said, “Rosie and I talked about jacking the place up and restoring it someday. I don't know what will happen to it now.”

“It would be a shame to lose it. Can't you just see the old fishermen mending their nets in here?”

Abby stopped. “You really do believe in ghosts, don't you?”

“What do you mean?” Marcy asked with a laugh.

“Well, you told us about Agda, the ghost in the café. And now you're talking about the spirits of old fishermen. Sure sounds like you believe in ghosts.”

Joining Abby outside, Marcy said, “I didn't say I believe in them. But I do like to keep an open mind.”

Abby laughed. “Okay, whatever you say. Come on, let's go up to the house.”

Marcy took great pleasure in seeing the smile on Abby's face and the lighthearted spring in her step. It felt good to think that perhaps she'd distracted the girl, for a short time anyway, from the worries of the past week.

A seldom-used path led up from the beach through a broad stand of tall birch and aspen trees. Straight as toothpicks, the trees held their crowns of fresh young leaves high overhead. It was quiet here, except for the soft rustling of a cool breeze wafting up from the lake.

An old barn-like structure soon came into view. A squat, fat building, the bait shop looked even shorter due to a heavy listing to one side. It appeared to be propped up by several cords of split firewood stacked along one wall. As they approached the building from the rear, Marcy was surprised to see so much junk piled up against the back wall. Scattered over the forest floor lay several old cattle troughs, once used as minnow tanks. Some of them now hosted full-grown aspen trees, their trunks growing up through the rusted-out, bottomless hulks. She identified old snowplow and tractor parts, and half a dozen overturned fishing boats with gaping holes in their hulls.

Silently, they made their way along the side of the building where neat rows of maple and birch firewood stood beneath a tin-roofed lean-to attached to the building. The place had a deserted feel to it, but Marcy found herself sneaking along behind Abby anyway.