Black Otter Bay (37 page)

She ran back to the overhead garage door, but that handle didn't budge, either. Frustrated and getting anxious, Abby listened again at a crack in the door panel, and then hissed Ben's name in a raspy whisper. Hiding in the shadows beneath the overhang, she alternated calling his name and listening. “Ben!”

Retracing her steps to the small door, Abby tried in vain to peer around the edges of the tarp. It seemed that all her efforts were being thwarted, and in desperation she began tapping on the window. Again she called Ben's name, louder this time, but all she got was a hollow echo and silence. She grabbed the door handle and rattled it hard, yanking the door against the frame.

Abby's anger heated up. She stood back, looked around again, and wondered how she could have gotten it so wrong. If Ben were here, he would have answered her call. She'd been so sure. Everything had pointed to the bait shop. She kicked the door, and then turned around to stare blindly up the driveway into the dark. He wasn't here. No one was here; the place was empty. She crammed her hands in her pockets against the chill and took a deep breath.
But then again, maybe he had been here,
she thought. Perhaps they'd just moved him, or maybe he was on his way up here even now. She spun back to the door with the decision that she had to get inside to look around.

Using the toe of her shoe to probe the ground for a rock, she suddenly remembered the woodpile beside the shop. A moment later Abby swung a split aspen log like a baseball bat,
shattering the window against the tarp, where it clattered to the cement floor inside.

The crash of breaking glass destroyed the stillness of the night. Well, she thought, if anybody had been watching or waiting, they knew for sure that she was here now. Abby reached through the broken window and unlocked the door. Standing in the doorway, her hand automatically sought the light switch, until she remembered that all the fluorescent fixtures worked off switches on a wooden column behind the sales counter. With a last look over her shoulder up the driveway, she ducked into the bait shop and threaded her way from memory around the sales counter in the dark. Reaching the cash register, Abby suddenly stopped and jerked herself up straight to peer into the blackest corners of the building.

There it was again, that static-like feeling of nervous waiting, as if all the guests at a surprise party were hidden around the room, awaiting their cue to jump out and surprise her. The awful silence bore down on her until she realized why it was too quiet, even for a deserted building. The minnow tanks!

Abby reached for the light switches. Flicking through them resulted in nothing: no lights, no water pumps, nothing. She felt around for the telephone that also hung on the post, but the line was dead. With a sour smirk she realized that all the utilities had been shut off, and with her friends stranded back there in the ditch, she'd have to find another way to get them help. She wasn't worried about the man in the big car hurting her friends. After all, she was the one he was after. But when she thought of Arlene and her gun, a tight-lipped grin spread across her face. She had no doubt he'd get the bad end of that deal!

Abby continued rummaging around, opening the cash register and cabinet drawers. She found a heavy stainless steel flashlight that cast a brilliant arc of light around the room, and very conveniently fit like a war club in her hand.

She moved away from the counter area and followed the flashlight beam over to the minnow tanks. Dozens of little fish
bodies floated belly-up in the dark water. When she plunged a hand beneath the surface, the water still felt cold, and tiny puckered mouths bounced against her hand looking for food. The other tanks were the same, leading Abby to believe the power hadn't been off too long. But what did that mean? Had Ben been here, or was she totally wrong about the whole thing?

Wandering around the room, she remembered Randall swatting the countertop displays off the cabinet in a fit of anger. Small packages of lures and tackle still littered the floor. She directed the light into the darker corners of the room, in among storage crates and obsolete gear. As far as she could tell, everything looked just as it had when she and Marcy stopped here after Rose's memorial service. It didn't look like anyone had been here since then, much less her kidnapped brother.

Abby leaned against the side of Rose's old pickup truck, where she and Marcy had hidden from Randall a week ago. It seemed so much longer than a mere week, and to confirm that the incident had really happened, she aimed the flashlight beam at the side wall of the bait shop to illuminate the bullet hole just a few feet above the truck bed. Whatever else it might prove, one thing was certain: Randall Bengston was crazy.

She opened the driver's door and climbed in, taking a seat behind the steering wheel. Exhaustion quickly took over, compounded by disappointment at not finding her brother. She'd been absolutely sure about this, so how could she have figured it so wrong? With the dome light on in the cab, she shut off the flashlight and fell back against the bench seat with a sigh. What had Randall meant by all that crap about fishing and secrets?

Abby let her eyes close with the thought that she'd put her friends' welfare in jeopardy over nothing. They'd tried to help her, and then she'd run out on them because of her stupid conclusions about Ben and the bait shop. He wasn't here, and it was obvious now that he never had been. She may not have understood the meaning behind Randall's rambling conversation, but she decided that it must have been either drunken nonsense
or a bunch of lies. For all she knew, Ben could already be dead, although she still didn't believe that.

She opened her eyes to an exhaustion and despair she'd never known before. It was worse than the day her mother had left them, even tougher than the night she'd lost Ben. She wanted to go home, but couldn't muster the energy to climb out of the truck. Directly before her was Rose's old CB radio mounted under the dashboard. It had a whip-style antenna attached to the back of the truck bed, and Abby remembered Rose driving slowly through town, talking into the microphone, with the antenna rocking back and forth behind her.

Out of curiosity she reached out to turn the power knob. A little red light came on, but that was all. The microphone was clipped to a mount screwed into the face of the dash, and Abby reached out again to push the button several times. Nothing. She knew that CB radios weren't used much anymore since the onset of cell phones and computers, but this thing had to be working because the power light was on.

She sat forward to take a closer look. Turning the volume control produced a loud crackling of static. Once again she pushed the microphone button, and this time the static stopped. Intrigued, she unclipped the microphone, held it to her mouth, and pushed the button again. “Hello? Hello?”

No response. She turned the volume way up, pushed the button, and said, “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

Nothing. Looking through the back window, she saw the antenna held down along the length of the truck box by a hook just behind the cab. She got out, unhooked the antenna, and let it whip upright from its base. Now she knew why Rose kept it clipped down; it was too tall to fit through the garage door.

She reached across the seat and grabbed the microphone again. “Hello? Hello? Is anybody out there? Can anyone hear me?”

The static resumed its noisy monologue. Abby climbed up to hook the microphone back on the dash when the CB suddenly roared in her face. “Breaker one-nine. Breaker one-niner.”

Abby grabbed at the volume control and turned it down, then sat back, dumbfounded, staring at the little box mounted under the dash.

“Breaker one-nine,” came a woman's voice again. “Are you still there? Over.”

Abby couldn't hold back a grin. This old thing still worked!

“Breaker one-nine, this is Thunderbird. How about it out there, you still got your ears on?”

Abby picked up the microphone. She had no idea what to say. This was crazy! “Thunderbird?” she ventured. “Is that you, Mrs. Bean?”

“Ten-four, young lady. Abby?”

“Mrs. Bean! I'm so glad—”

“You have to hold the button down the whole time you talk, Abby. You're breaking up.”

“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Bean, I mean, Thunderbird.” Abby giggled. The name “Thunderbird” didn't exactly slide off her tongue, especially when addressing Mrs. Bean.

“What's your twenty, Abby? Where are you?”

Abby could barely hear again, so she turned up the volume. “I'm at the bait shop. The phone doesn't work here. Could you call Sheriff Fastwater to go pick up Arlene and Marcy? Our car went in the ditch on the back road up from Duluth. They're not too far from town.”

“Is everybody okay?” The volume continued fading, so Abby kept turning it up.

“We're fine. I mean, I think so. I'm just really tired. Would you also call my dad to come get me?”

“Of course. Are you sure you're all right?”

Mrs. Bean's voice faded to a whisper as the radio drained the old truck battery. Abby turned the volume all the way up, but could barely even hear the static anymore.

“I'm losing power. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Bean.” And then the radio was dead. Abby shut it off, replaced the
microphone, and sat back again. At least she'd called for help for her friends. Mrs. Bean would know what to do.

Drawing a deep sigh, Abby felt the disappointment of the evening seeping into her, weighing her down and making it difficult to move. She slid off the truck seat and closed the door. Aiming the flashlight around the room one last time, she made a final inspection, looking for something she knew wasn't there, and then, feeling defeated, headed for the door to await her father's arrival. On the way she passed the minnow tanks sitting silently in the dark. Without water pumps, she figured they'd all be dead by morning.

Abby set the flashlight on the counter, and then stepped over to the door. Broken window glass crunched underfoot. She grabbed the tarp and lifted it to reach the door handle, but as she pushed it open she spotted the flash of headlights flickering against the treetops on the other side of the house.

She slammed the door and pulled just enough of the tarp aside to peer outside. A car was coming. By watching the lights among the trees, she could tell when the vehicle dropped off the highway to follow the driveway down around the house. As it approached, the glimmering lights played along the trees and brush, but when the car rounded the house, the headlights fell full on the bait shop.

Abby dropped the tarp and sucked in her breath. No need to lock the door, she'd already broken the window! Two quick steps brought her back to the counter, where she retrieved the flashlight and held it in both hands like a baseball bat. At the door again, she watched as the reflections from the headlights slid slowly across the tarp. Then it stopped.

A moment later it disappeared.

Abby stood behind the door, clutching the long, heavy flashlight like a weapon. She focused all her attention into listening. It was much too soon for her father's arrival, plus he would have left the lights on and the motor running. She couldn't hear anything, and when she couldn't stand it anymore, she once again reached for the tarp.

Not twenty feet away stood the big car, the same car she'd seen so long ago out at Big Island Lake, the car that had chased them up from Duluth. She wondered if the man's presence here meant he'd left Arlene and Marcy alone. The back road wound much farther up north before looping back down to Black Otter Bay, so it was entirely possible that she could have beaten him here on foot by cutting cross-country while he circled around up north on the back road.

Then another thought occurred to her: maybe Ben was in the car! Could she have been right after all? Was he just now being brought up here? She heard a car door close, quietly, like someone trying to be sneaky. In a sudden panic, she ran back around the counter to hide in the dark. Her heart resumed its frightened pounding, making it difficult to breathe or react sensibly. What was she thinking? She couldn't hide here. If that was indeed Ben outside and they brought him in here, she'd simply get caught and be of no use at all.

She stood up, scrunched her face into a grimace, and marched back around the counter to stand behind the door. She took a firm grip on the flashlight, wrapping her fingers around it tightly. Holding an ear at the edge of the tarp, she listened and waited while nervously gripping and kneading the flashlight, ready now to take the offensive.

A minute later she still couldn't hear anything. Then, silently and barely moving, with her resolve fading away, she inched the tarp aside to look out at the driveway. The big car sat there, a brooding menace outside the door. Then she saw a light out ahead of the car, and pulled the tarp away in time to stick her head through the broken window to see a lone figure carrying a bound and gagged body over his shoulder. Abby's thoughts immediately went back to Big Island Lake and the man in the waders carrying Rose's body. She watched as he followed his flashlight beam around the side of the bait shop.

The boathouse!

“Oh, my God!” Abby muttered out loud. Of course it was the boathouse! Nobody ever went down there anymore. She
opened the door and stepped outside. With the flashlight still off and her eyes accustomed now to the dark, she scooted along the front of the bait shop to the path leading through the aspen grove to the beach. Up ahead, she spotted the bobbing glow of the man's flashlight as he unsteadily trekked along under the weight over his shoulder.

Abby paused as a million thoughts rambled through her exhausted brain. She was certain it was her brother on the man's shoulder, and he wasn't dead, because she'd clearly seen the duct tape over his mouth. She turned to look back at the bait shop doorway. She couldn't call for help because both the telephone and radio were dead, and there was no way of knowing how long it would take her father to get here. She aimed her flashlight back at the car. Nothing moved, no heads ducked out of the way. It was just a big, broad vehicle blocking the driveway.