Black Otter Bay (30 page)

“Hello, Marcy,” he said. He nodded at Abby, adding, “Good evening, Abby.”

Randall still hadn't found any words for his newest visitor. Leonard pushed off from the doorframe and took a few steps into the office. He stood tall and easy in his western boots. The solitary braid at his back was tied off with a wide strip of rawhide. His hands were huge for such a tall, slender figure, and they rested at his side with thumbs hooked into the pockets of his blue jeans. “I saw the lights on,” he said, looking at Randall. “And the door was unlocked, so I thought I'd come in and see that everything is okay.”

Randall made a face. “So, what, are you a cop here in Duluth now, too?”

“No, sir. Like I said, I just wanted to see that everyone is okay.” He looked at Abby, an inquiring expression on his face. “Everything is okay here, isn't it?”

Abby noticed Randall fingering his cell again, like he wanted to make another call, but not in this crowd. Then Marcy said, “Actually, Leonard, we were just leaving.” She gestured with a nod for Abby to follow her.

Randall glared at Leonard. “You just happened to be walking by, eh?” His sarcasm was so thick that to Abby it sounded like a challenge. She remembered now that Leonard never carried a gun, and she wondered if Randall knew that.

“It's a beautiful night,” Leonard replied, soft and friendly. He glanced at Marcy, and said, “I took a stroll up by the casino, and then thought I'd come down here by the harbor for some fresh air.”

When she saw Marcy inching into the doorway, with the file folder still behind her back, Abby started across the office floor to join her. “I guess it's getting late,” she said, even though she had no idea what time it was. “And it's been a long day.”

Randall manufactured a cheerful voice, calling to Abby, “Remember about the brotherhood of fishermen.”

When she paused to look back at him, she felt sickened by the phony smile on his face. Averting her eyes, she offered him a brief nod.

Marcy flashed a more-than-friendly smile at Leonard, and then impetuously skipped over on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

Leonard smiled. “Good night, you two,” he said, winking at Abby.

Marcy led the way out the door and through the darkened gallery to the back entrance. Abby heard the men's voices behind them, but couldn't make out their words. When they were outside, Marcy paused on the back landing, where she held the file folder over her head like a trophy, exclaiming, “We got it, Abby! We got it!”

Abby gave a final thought to the men in the office while Marcy danced a jig on the landing. Then she grabbed Marcy's arm, and asked, “What did Randall mean when he said that it
doesn't matter anymore about Ben? I mean, he told us he knows where my brother is, but he said it probably won't make any difference now what we know.”

Marcy stopped her ridiculous gyrations. Abby's somber expression dissolved her giddiness and wiped the grin from her face. “I don't know, Abby. He probably just meant that Ben would soon be home safe and sound. What we know or don't know won't change that.” She held the file up again. “But this does matter, Abby. This matters a lot.” Then she bounded down the steps and headed for the alleyway between the buildings. “Come on,” she called.

Somewhat reluctant, as if she had missed an important piece of information, Abby descended the steps to follow her friend. Marcy's explanation seemed too simple. If that's what Randall had meant, he could have just said it, instead of talking in riddles about fishing and keeping secrets. The one thing he had made clear, however, was that he expected them to keep quiet until Ben got home. Following her friend around the back of the building, with all these thoughts and worries running through her mind, she didn't notice the big, black, idling sedan in the parking lot behind them, and wasn't aware when the headlights came on as she turned into the alleyway.

Marcy Soderstrom

“I
don't want to hear any more about it,” Marcy argued. “We're taking this to the police.”

They rounded the corner out of the alleyway and burst back into the real world of tourists, restaurants, and bars. Moonlight glistened between the steel girders of the Aerial Lift Bridge, casting shimmering reflections across Lake Superior as it rolled dark and cold into the harbor. The early summer evening had blossomed out soft and mild, signaling an end to winter, and it appeared that the whole city had turned out to celebrate the change of seasons. Most of the retail stores were closed, although by mid-summer, at the height of the tourist season, many of the shops would stay open as long as potential customers filled the sidewalks.

Abby caught up to Marcy and grabbed her arm. “But we can't, Marcy. You heard Randall, we can't say anything.”

Marcy stopped abruptly and turned on her young friend. “Listen to me, Abby. Randall knows where Ben is. He said so, and that means he lied to investigators.” She held up the file folder. “And we know he's laundering money or something. This is a big deal, like federal-type offenses. It's gone way beyond what we can simply keep to ourselves.”

“But Ben is coming home,” Abby pleaded. “Can't we just wait until he's safe?”

Marcy drew a deep sigh while scanning the crowd with a furtive eye. She started to speak, but changed her mind, instead putting an arm around Abby and pulling her into a walk. Leaning into her, she said quietly, “I don't like the way any of this
has gone today. I feel like we're in over our heads, like we might be in danger. There's just no other way, Abby. We have to get help.”

She led them toward her waterfront motel, wending their way through the throngs of people in Canal Park. The Great Lakes Nautical Museum was closed, but dozens of people filled the park around it anyway, enjoying the moonlit evening. Clusters of college students milled around, playing hacky-sack or tossing Frisbees under the light of streetlamps, while lovers strolled hand in hand along the concrete pier out to the lighthouse at the entrance to the shipping canal.

Abby ducked out from under Marcy's arm and stopped her once again. “We're not in any danger,” she said, her youthful confidence adding a tone to her voice. Then she lightened up a bit. “I mean, as long as we don't tell anyone what we know, there's no reason for us to worry.”

They paused across the street from Marcy's motel, where the crowd had thinned out into small groups of people, some drinking beer, others just hanging around, enjoying an evening outside without parkas or boots. Marcy spoke softly, but with an impatient urgency not typical in her voice. “You know, Abby, ever since that day I found you and Ben hiding in the café, you haven't been exactly open and honest with me. And who knows what Randall was going on about with all that talk about fishing. But for me, the main thing is that I'm getting a bad vibe from all this. Plus, your dad asked me to keep an eye on you.” She stood up straight and scanned the crowd again, like a secret service agent looking for trouble. Then she leaned over Abby, saying, “So, this is what we're going to do. We'll run up to my room, call the police, and when they get there we'll turn over this file and tell them what we know.” She bent down face to face with Abby. “And I mean
everything
we know.”

Abby shook her head. “No.”

“Abby, please, it's our only choice.”

“No.” And then she reached out and grabbed for the file folder.

They struggled, but Marcy was bigger and stronger, and with a grunt she yanked it out of Abby's fingers and clutched it close with both arms. Marcy had a reputation for her easygoing personality, but the nerve-wracking events in the casino and gallery had set her on edge, and now Abby's challenge finally provoked her to anger. She fixed her young friend with a wild-eyed stare. “You listen to me, young lady. Do you think Randall let us go out of the goodness of his heart? Huh? Do you?”

Abby stepped back, shocked by this outburst of anger.

“The only reason he let us go was because Leonard showed up. Think about it. You want to know why Randall said it doesn't matter anymore what we know? Because he had no intention of letting us go. The phone call, Abby, remember? He was alerting his friends that we were there.”

“But he said that Ben . . .”

Marcy waved her off. “He would have said anything to keep us there. And he had a gun, Abby. I'm sure he was reaching for it when Leonard came in.” She looked around again, shaking her head with a grimace. “Leonard must have seen me up at the casino. He was watching us to make sure we were safe. But we're on our own now, so we're going to do the right thing.” She took a moment to study the motel across the street, then reached out and grabbed Abby by the shoulder of her sweatshirt. “Now, come on,” she said. “If you want, we can call Sheriff Fastwater instead. He'll know what to do.”

They stepped off the curb, instinctively striding into a jog, with Marcy holding tight to Abby's sweatshirt. Then the street suddenly lit up from the headlights of an approaching vehicle. A full-sized sedan bore down on them, coming much too fast. Marcy dragged Abby back by the collar as the car's tires screeched, finally skidding to a stop broadside in front of them. The driver's window came down, and Abby froze with dread
at the sight of the man in sunglasses just four feet away. The same man she'd last seen on the shore of Big Island Lake.

“Come on!” Marcy yelled, pulling Abby around the rear fender of the car to race across the street. Another driver, approaching from the other direction, blasted his horn at them and swerved into the curb. Then they were running, across the street and into the motel parking lot. Behind them, Marcy heard the big sedan accelerating, wheels squealing on the damp asphalt. They ran between parked cars, dodging people, racing for the entrance of the motel. All around them was a maze of lights, shadows, pedestrians, and traffic.

The big luxury car roared to a stop under the valet parking awning just as Marcy and Abby reached the glass front doors. Through the lobby they ran, past the concierge desk and down a wide, brightly lit hallway to a bank of elevators. Marcy held the file folder tight against her, making her run in a lopsided, lurching fashion, with her hair bouncing and swinging across her shoulders. Abby chanced a quick look behind them, just in time to see the man with the spiked haircut barge through the front doors.

Past the elevators, Marcy turned into a side hallway, lengthening her stride to run full speed down the carpeted aisle. A father and mother, fresh from the motel's swimming pool, towels draped over their shoulders, pulled their young son to the side as Marcy charged past. Abby kept her eyes on her friend. Marcy's desperate, headlong flight, and her sudden burst of speed, sent her own athletic response into panic mode. She yelled, “Where are you going?”

“Just run, Abby, run!” Marcy called. Then she hit a side entrance, an emergency exit door. When she crashed through it the security system erupted, blaring down the hallway like a fire alarm. Abby followed so close behind that she cleared the exit without even touching the door. They burst out into a side lot of the guest parking area, a dimly lit expanse of asphalt reaching right up to the boulder-strewn shore of Lake Superior.

“Come on!” Marcy yelled, but Abby was already passing her. She'd spotted Marcy's old Buick sitting alone at the back of the parking lot, as if its rusty rocker panels were a contagious disease to be avoided by other vehicles. Abby reached the passenger side first, and Marcy called, “It's open. Get in.” Then both of them tumbled into the car.

Abby felt around in the dark for the door locks, barely hitting the switch before Marcy started the engine. Looking over at her, Abby watched as Marcy sat back behind the wheel, drawing a deep breath, giving herself a moment to pause while focusing her attention on the man sprinting at them across the parking lot.

“I never lock it,” Marcy said, as if reading Abby's mind. “And I always keep the keys under the seat.” She finally looked over at Abby and grinned. “Hey, what can I say? I'm a small-town girl.” Then she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, tromped down on the accelerator, and the big V-8 lurched to life.

Abby held on, bracing her feet against the floor. Marcy hadn't turned the headlights on yet, but Abby was certain she saw reflections off a gun carried by their pursuer. Now a second man joined the chase, but trailed several yards behind the first guy, his figure barely discernable flickering through the shadows. The Buick ripped out across the parking lot, tires throwing sprays of sand and grit as Marcy hurtled the car at the men. Abby yelled at her to slow down, but Marcy showed no sign of backing off. She pointed the car at the men like aiming an oversized handgun at them. Abby grabbed the armrest and seat, bracing her legs for impact, but at the last possible instant the men split up, diving out the way to either side.

Abby twisted around to look behind them, but all she saw was a thick cloud of dust swirling out from the Buick's wake. Then Marcy spun the steering wheel, careening them around the front of the motel, and Abby rolled across the seat. With tires squealing, they roared over the exit, sparks shooting out
from under them as the Buick bounced off the driveway ramp into the street.

Speeding away from Canal Park, Marcy put a block or two behind them before turning on the headlights. Abby finally dug out her seatbelt, keeping her feet planted firmly on the floor. “Where are we going?' she asked, as Marcy pushed the car hard up the narrow hillside streets of Duluth. Twelve or fifteen years ago the old Buick probably provided a smooth, quiet ride, but tonight the worn-out passenger compartment and chassis no longer held out the rattling road noises of an old engine and tires.

Marcy hadn't responded to her question, so Abby stole a sideways glance at her. Grasping the steering wheel with both hands, she drove with the intensity of a NASCAR racer. She'd back off a bit at intersections, but her concentration never faltered, and she kept a constant vigil on her mirrors as if anticipating pursuit. She seemed to be randomly picking a course through the East End neighborhoods, making sudden turns as if trying to lose a tailgater. She obviously hadn't heard Abby's question over the noise in the car.