Cruelest Month (8 page)

12

Ray sat in his car and watched Brett and Sue
begin to process the scene. Then he pulled on his seatbelt and slowly drove away. He knew that Sue was right. Spending the evening in the office trying to puzzle out who might be responsible for the crime, especially when they were both exhausted, would be a waste of time. He headed home.

When he reached the top of his drive, there was Hannah Jeffers waiting for him. His kayak was already secured to the roof of her Subaru wagon. They exchanged a friendly embrace.

“How did you get into the house?”

“The side door of the garage was unlocked. Your place never seems to be secured. You’re either very trusting or extremely careless,” she said, chuckling. “Doesn’t your department do those homeowner security workshops?”

Ray just shook his head, making no other response.

“Of course, you don’t have much that anyone could fence. Your 12-inch flat screen wouldn’t bring much, and no one wants books or classical CDs. But you do have an iPad; that’s worth stealing.” She gave him a poke in the chest. “Get into your dry suit,” she said. “We don’t have many hours of light left.”

Ten minutes later, Ray tossed his gear bag and two paddles in the back of Hannah’s vehicle and settled into the passenger’s seat. But she didn’t start the engine.

“Bad day?”

Ray did not turn to meet her gaze. “I thought we had an agreement to never talk about our work days, especially when we are on our way to the lake, on the water, or après kayaking.”

Hannah started to laugh. “Where did that come from? You’re making it up.” She reached over and felt for a vein on his neck. “The good news is you’ve got a pulse, but it’s a bit too rapid. I’d like to take your blood pressure. You seem hypertensive.”

“Come on, Hannah,” Ray said, pushing her hand away gently, “get this crate in gear. Once I get out on the water everything will be okay. Cut straight across to 22, then head south. There’s something I want to see.”

They drove for a while in silence, the windshield wipers providing a slow and slower tempo as the drizzle turned to mist.

“So you had a bad day?” Hannah asked again.

Ray took a deep breath, exhaled. “One of the worst.” He turned in his seat to face her. “I told you about Vincent Fox the other night?”

Hannah nodded, glancing at him. “Yes, I remember. The old guy who wrote about the Capone treasure.”

Ray told her about recovering Fox’s body, and the charring on the bottom of one of his feet. “It reminds me of something I saw in France.”

“What’s that?”

“When I was in the army, stationed in Europe, I toured a historical farm somewhere in France. The outbuildings had been restored to how they appeared in the 16
^th
or 17
^th
century. There were wonderful descriptions on everything, with translations in English, German, Spanish. One display talked about some outlaws of the time, La bande d’Orgeres, who attacked wealthy farmers and held their feet to the fire until they disclosed where their gold and valuables were hidden. My memory is that this kind of extortion took place shortly before the beginning of the French Revolution, and that these activities were a precursor to the bloody events that followed.”

“You think that’s what happened to Fox?”

“Who knows?” Ray said. “It’s such an old technique, been around since medieval times, probably before. And now, possibly right here in Cedar County. Hard to be optimistic about human progress.” Hannah snorted. “So, what would be the physiological effect of that kind of torture?” he asked.

Hannah’s eyes were locked on the twisting county road in front of her. “You don’t need a medical degree to figure that one out. Elderly man, high-stress situation. Heart attack, stroke. By his age lots of things are just waiting to fail. The autopsy will probably provide a reliable answer.” She grimaced. “Medieval, that’s the perfect word. It’s hard to imagine the horror they put this poor man through.”

The mist had faded to almost nothing, and Hannah turned off the wipers. Again they were silent as the orchards faded away to piney scrub and marsh. “I understand you’re upset,” she said at last. “My question is, is our destination connected with this case?”

Ray chuckled. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Given all the money involved, Fox probably got himself involved in something drug-related.” He told her about Ma French finding the large stash of cash on the grounds of the Hollingsford Estate and explained he wanted to paddle to the estate from the Lake Michigan side for a look around.

“It’s really isolated,” he said. “Of course, in the summer you can get there by crossing a small lake—Lost Lake, that’s what it’s called—in a boat or a canoe. In the winter it’s skis, snowshoes, or a snowmobile across the ice. These days, the ice is probably too thin.

“Why not hike in? Can’t you just go around the Lost Lake?”

“Most of the surrounding area is marshland and swamp. There are places where you can slip into mud up to your waist. No thanks.”

“Looks like we have some chop,” Hannah said, pulling into the parking area.

“Not too bad,” Ray responded. “And given the direction of the wind, we will be protected by that headland for launch and landing. There’s a storm coming in tonight, but we should be off the water long before it comes onshore.”

Hannah parked the Subaru in the launch and they both got out to offload the boats. “Do we need lights?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“I don’t think the batteries in this thing are any good,” she said, fiddling with the navigation light attached to her life vest.

“I can’t help you out. I don’t have any in my gear bag,” Ray said, pulling on his gloves. “They’re really only for visibility, but this time of the year there’s never anyone on the water. Mine works, and I’ll put a flashlight in my day hatch.”

They paddled north for more than an hour along the miles of empty shoreline, beach. and low dunes without a single cottage. They landed on the south side of the small stream that emptied from Lost Lake.

Hannah pulled off her PFD and spray skirt, and tossed them into the open cockpit of her kayak. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

“There is supposed to be an old cemetery up on that bluff overlooking the lake. That’s where Ma French found the cash. My best guess is that whoever is connected to the money is accessing the area on a snowmobile or ATV. Probably coming from the north.”

“Why didn’t we…?”

“The put-in would have been more than twice as far, and we wouldn’t have had enough daylight. We barely have enough as it is. We better get going.”

Ray led the way over the beach and up the hill, stopping near the remnants of a wrought-iron fence that marked the perimeters of the cemetery. They walked among a small collection of headstones, some standing, others fallen flat over graves.

“Rex, Star, Lady…looks like mostly pets in this section,” Hannah said. “And on the human side, the ones I can read go back a hundred years.”

“This is probably the newest one.” Ray pointed at a monolith of gray granite, the largest headstone in the cemetery.

“What are the rules on cemeteries? Can you make one anywhere?” asked Hannah.

“Not now. There are zoning and environmental rules. In the early days, though, you could pretty much do what you wanted.”

They walked around, looking at head stones, at times stooping and brushing off the surfaces of the markers to read the inscriptions. Eventually they met each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Hannah asked.

“I came here mostly to get a sense of the place. I wasn’t anticipating any major discoveries.” He nodded toward the lake. “We better get going. I want to get back before it’s completely dark. Looks like the wind’s come up.”

The surf had started to build while they were on land. After getting their gear back on, Ray helped Hannah launch into the breakers. Then he climbed in his boat, secured his spray skirt, and pushed into an oncoming wave with his hand. His bow was immediately shoved parallel to the shore. He struggled to get it turned back into the surf, and finally, he was able to break free of the beach and the pounding waves. Together, they paddled out about a 100 yards , beyond the second sand bar, where the rolling action of the waves was a bit less intense.

The trip out had been relaxed. The return was tense—the wind and waves building as the light diminished. They had to paddle hard through the troughs, bracing at the tops of the waves on the windward side to keep from getting rolled.

Ray didn’t see Hannah capsize. They were often on opposite sides of five-foot crests. But as he moved into the next wave, he saw the white bottom of Hannah’s kayak turned skyward. She rolled up, only to be knocked over by the powerful crest of the next wave. When she rolled up, Ray was relieved to see her brace against the following wave and quickly settle back into a muscular stroke.

They pushed on. Ray checked his watch and worried about Hannah getting too cold. He estimated that they had about 20 minutes more of hard going before they would come under the protection of the headland. In the roaring wind he didn’t hear the shriek of the Jet Ski engine until it crashed over the wave in front of him, coming between his boat and Hannah’s. It disappeared out into the lake for 20 or 30 seconds, then returned, splashing across Hannah’s bow and crossing Ray’s a second time. Then it was gone. Ray tried to remember the details as they paddled toward calm water.

“I thought you told me there were never any boats out here at this time of year,” yelled Hannah as they approached the shore in the protection of the headland.

“There aren’t,” said Ray.

“Then, what was that all about?”

“Come on Ray, what was it all about, that Jet Ski?” Hannah asked. They were back in Ray’s kitchen, having endured a stricken paddle to the shore and a tense, silent ride home. Hannah had found solace in the inner workings of an espresso machine.

“How is it that you have two of those?” Ray asked.

“Don’t change the subject.” She gave Ray a look. “It’s a long story. A certain someone dropped off a machine that I never thought I’d see again. I had already bought a replacement. And it’s not that I don’t like your French press, it’s just that I like cappuccino so much better. You needed one.” She walked him through the process of pulling a good shot
,
explaining that if the grind is right and tamped with 30 pounds of pressure in the portafilter, a lovely crema will form on the top of the coffee
.
When they were seated at the table with their cappuccino, she sighed deeply.

“All right. I don’t know. Someone was giving us a look. Maybe trying to scare us,” Ray said.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Technically, he was getting too close and running without navigation lights. Other than that, he didn’t do anything that was illegal.”

“Yes, but don’t you want to talk to him?”

“If I know who he was, sure, I’d like to know why he was out there. But he’s not going to be easy to find. I didn’t see a registration number on the boat, not that there was much light. It might have been there.”

“I needed your flare gun for protection. And I hate those things. Jet Skis.”

“I don’t like them, either. Maybe when gas goes to $10 a gallon most of them will disappear.”

“Did you see me capsize?” Hannah asked, sipping.

“No, I only saw your white hull and knew you were over.”

“I was trying to brace, and I missed the top of the wave. Bingo, I was upside down. Then I rolled up and got nailed a second time. In the dark water and the low light, I had trouble finding the horizon. I was really disoriented. I love to roll, but I didn’t like that. I was out of control.” She shivered.

They sat in silence for several minutes, attending to their coffee and reflecting. “You know what I’d like to do?” Hannah said, pushing away her empty demitasse.

“What’s that?”

“Raid your refrigerator for the remnants of your last box from Zingerman’s, open a bottle of Mawby, mess around awhile, and spend the night.” She stood up and was by Ray’s side, bending over and kissing him hard on the lips. Then she picked up their cups and set them noisily in the sink. “But,” she said, “I’m on call tonight, so our friendship can remain blissful and uncomplicated.”

As they kissed again, Ray pulled her close. “I think we have broadened the definition of speed dating,” she said on her way out the door.

13

Ray wandered around the house after Hannah’s departure
. After finishing with the kitchen, he hung his PFD and spray skirt in the mudroom and carefully balanced his mukluks, the open side down, over a floor vent. He draped his dry suit, inside out over the shower curtain rod in the guest bedroom, along with the fleece jumpsuit he wore under it.

Although physically exhausted, his mind was still buzzing from the events of the day. He retrieved his journal and a fountain pen and stood for several minutes looking at a blank page. Finally, he unscrewed his pen and brought it to the top line of the verso page. He moved the point in an upward sweep, and the line of brown ink went from thin to invisible. Ray pulled a small pad from his desk and tried the pen again, making gentle circles—a few more blotches and then nothing. He refilled the pen, wiping the tip carefully and returning the inkbottle to its cubbyhole.

Starting again, he wrote about Vincent Fox, the man in the worn buckskin jacket with the fringes, the old guy with the long gray hair in pigtails he had seen occasionally shopping in the market. The character walking along the side of the road with a weathered, leather backpack. He thought he also remembered seeing Fox on his old bicycle, maybe a Schwinn.

Real and false memories occupied his thinking for several minutes.

Did he actually remember seeing Vincent Fox on a bicycle or was that just an invented memory, an imaginary connection his brain made seeing the bike or hearing Fox’s daughter talk about her father?

The scene with Fox’s body flashed across Ray’s memory. He reflected on the hardest part of police work, crimes against the most vulnerable members of the community, usually the young and the old. Ray wrote about controlling his rage as he viewed Fox’s body in the water and his revulsion as Dr. Dyskin pointed out the charred area on Fox’s foot. Then he recorded his conversation with Sue about the aluminum bats, adding a few lines about a colleague from his first year of police work, an avid tennis player, who had a steel racket he repeatedly slammed into a large canvas beanbag chair as a way of unwinding after a particularly rough shift.