Dead Renegade (11 page)

Mason nodded her head in quiet agreement. Osborne decided to plunge ahead. “Speaking of mean—I’ll never forget how, when I was a little older than you are today and away at boarding school, there was a boy in the fourth grade who was a big bully. Always beating up on the younger, smaller kids. The boys in his dorm were scared to death but no one would tell the grown-ups what he was doing. He said he would kill them if they told on him.”

Osborne shook his head, “Those younger boys were terrified.”

“Did he hurt you?” Mason’s eyes were wide.

“No, because I was living in a different dorm. And I was older than the bully so he might not have picked on me anyway. But one of my friends was in the bully’s dorm and when he heard what was happening, he got upset. He got really upset when he found out that other boys—older boys like him—knew what was happening but they didn’t do anything to stop the bullying either.”

Osborne patted Mason’s knee. “They were older but they were scared, too.”

“But your friend wasn’t?”

“Oh, I imagine he had to be kind of scared, but he was willing to take a chance if it meant protecting the younger boys.”

“Did he tattle?”

“Yes, he did. He decided it was better to be called a tattletale—if that might happen—than to see kids hurt. Depends on how you look at it, Mason. I call stopping bad people ‘whistle blowing’—and that is very different from tattling about something small, because when you ‘blow the whistle’ you are
helping to
stop something that is very wrong and hurting people.”

Silence from the girl on the log beside him. Osborne decided to press on: “Would you like to know how he made up his mind to blow the whistle on that bully?”

Mason nodded.

“He did it because his grandmother had told him once that she didn’t care if he grew up to be rich and famous so much as she hoped he would be kind and brave—brave enough to help people who might not be able to help themselves. And that’s what he thought about when he heard the younger boys were getting picked on and no one was doing anything about it:
was this a time to be brave?”

“Ray is brave.” Mason sat up a little taller. “He stopped Mr. Calverson.”

“He sure did. You know … Chief Ferris and I think you’re brave, sweetheart.”

Mason studied his face, eyes questioning, then she glanced away as she dug at the dirt and pebbles with her sandals.

“Brave enough to tell me what happened this morning so other kids don’t get hurt.”

Mason shrugged and tried to change the subject: “You mean Lewellyn?”

“Yes, my good friend Lewellyn—she likes you.”

“You mean your
girlfriend
Lewellyn?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Osborne, grinning. “You’ll have to ask her.”

Mason continued to stare at her feet, determined not to meet his gaze. Darn, thought Osborne, he had said the wrong thing.

“That kid at your school—the one that, um, blew the whistle. What happened to him?”

“He’s a pediatrician, well, just retired. A doctor for little kids. Oh, wait, you mean did something bad happen to him after he told the priests what was going on?”

Mason nodded.

“No. When the grown-ups heard what was happening, they called the bully into the principal’s office right away and the principal called his parents. He was not allowed to spend one more night in the dorm, but was sent home that day.

“Boy, was our school relieved to be able to put a stop to the bullying. And my friend did not get hurt, no one called him a tattletale. The younger boys are all grown up today, of course, but when we have school reunions—they still thank him.

“It isn’t easy to be brave, Mason, but it’s one of the most important things you can ever do. By the way, since you mentioned Chief Ferris, I’ll tell you a secret—I can only call her ‘Lewellyn’ when she’s not working. This is professional law enforcement so I have to use her official title. Is that okay with you?”

“Promise not to tell Mom?”

“Why, sweetheart? She’s worried to death about you.”

“Grandpa, last week she hollered at Dad that she has enough to worry about. She said one more thing and she’ll have a nervous breakdown. I don’t want to make her have a nervous breakdown.”

Osborne had to put his head down to hide his smile. When had Erin not blown things out of proportion? She would be so mad at herself if she knew the effect that marital spat had had on her daughter.

“Honeybunch, I promise I can help your mom avoid a nervous breakdown. But the fact is that if we don’t tell her something, she’ll continue to worry and that’s not good either. Now how about you tell me what happened, than I’ll tell Chief Ferris and together we’ll decide what to tell your mom. Does that work?”

Mason was quiet for a long time. Finally she said in a tiny little voice, “Grandpa, I think it’s my fault because I have impure thoughts sometimes and Sister Frances said that impure thoughts can make bad things happen to you.”

“Oh, so this might have something to do with the private parts of your body.” Osborne kept his tone level as his worry skyrocketed.

“Yes. Kind of. Not mine—someone else’s.”

“Whose?”

“The big boy at the fish pond.”

“Did he touch you?”

“No. But he really scared me.” Mason jumped to her feet as she said, “Grandpa, he was on the island with no clothes on. He kept showing me … you know?”

“His bottom?” Osborne chose the word Mary Lee had always used with their daughters.

Mason’s head nodded up and down.

“But that’s not your fault. What scared you? Did he get close to you?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid he would cross the island and come after me so I ran and then I saw someone on a bike and … and … I think it could’ve been him.”

“So that’s why you hid?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t touch you?”

She shook her head ‘no.’

“Are you afraid to go back to the fish pond?”

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

“Okay, here’s what we do. First, I will let your mom know you’re okay. That’s as much as I’ll say—no one has touched you or hurt you. Then I’ll talk to Chief Ferris and she’ll have her officers watch the island and the fishpond so no other little kids are frightened. And next time you want to go to the fishpond? I’ll go with you.
As often as you need me to.
Does that make you feel better?”

The relief on his granddaughter’s face brought Osborne close to tears. “Brave of you to tell me, sweetheart,” he said, patting her hand. “Hungry?”

“Hot dogs!” shouted Mason as she ran back along the path. Osborne exhaled, then followed.

Life in his world was certainly never boring: Nervous breakdowns, impure thoughts, and the logic of children. Jeez Louise. He could sure as hell use a hot dog, himself

CHAPTER
16

O
sborne dropped Mason off shortly after six, managing with a few quick whispers to let Erin know only that she had been frightened by a “big boy” exposing himself.

“Oh, Dad …”

“But not touched. From a distance. The kid was standing out on that island across from the fishpond. She’s okay.”

“Thank goodness,” said Erin, relief flooding her face. “Are you telling the cops or do you want me to?”

“Let me talk to Lew first,” said Osborne. “There’s nothing to be done tonight anyway, and she’s out with friends in town for their high school reunion. She knows how worried we’ve been, and she told me to call tonight if I found out more. So I’ll give her a call later.”

“Good. If I know Lewellyn Ferris, she’ll put an end to that funny business,” said Erin, her mouth grim. “When you find out, let me know who the creep is, will you, Dad? Doesn’t hurt for other parents to know we’ve got a potential sex offender in Loon Lake.”

“Now, Erin, the important thing is Mason is okay—she inhaled three hot dogs, a bushel of potato chips and two bottles of root beer. And I’ve promised to go along to the fishpond with her until we find whoever it was that bothered her. I really think she’s okay.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Erin. “I just wish I knew why she wouldn’t tell
me.”

“She doesn’t want you to have a nervous breakdown. Sound familiar?” Osborne decided not to mention Sister Mary Frances and the impure thoughts.

“Oh, jeez, did I really say that?” Erin scrunched her face in mock pain. “Mom used to say that all the time. I can’t believe I did that.”

She sure wouldn’t do it again, thought Osborne as he drove off Halfway home and anxious as always to hear Lew’s voice if only on her voice mail, he decided to pull over and give her a call on his cell phone. No doubt she was at dinner but at least he could leave a message and hope she might call sooner rather than later.

To his surprise, she answered. He could hear the buzz of a restaurant in the background but Lew seemed eager to take the call. He pictured her leaving the table and walking over to a quiet place to talk to him. He liked the feeling.

“That’s good news and bad news, Doc,” she said after hearing that Mason had been frightened but not physically harmed. “We had a similar situation on the island several years ago and the city put up new fencing specifically to keep people out. Sounds like that fence has been vandalized.

“Roger’s on duty tonight. I’ll have the switchboard call him right now. Ask him to check on it and arrange for a maintenance crew to get there first thing in the morning. I doubt Mason is the only child who’s been frightened. You’re sure she’s okay?”

“I think so. She enjoyed the picnic. Ray entertained everyone,” said Osborne. “Hey, sounds like you’re having a good time …” He tried to keep his tone lighthearted.

“I am. So great to see everyone. But next time we all get together, I want you along. My friends would like to meet you.”

“Really?” Osborne grinned into the cell phone.

“Oh—and the Wausau boys are sending one of their guys—remember Bruce? He’ll be in town first thing in the morning. He’s been fishing up in Sylvania and was due back in the offices tomorrow anyway. I expect him in my office around eight a.m. Can you be there, too? Stand in for our missing coroner?”

“Sure.”

“Oops, here comes Greg—I better say goodbye.”

“Greg—is that the millionaire home builder?” Osborne dared to ask the question.

“That’s Greg. He’s invited me to join him in the Bahamas—Lovely Bay. Wants to show me how to catch bone-fish with a fly rod.”

“Must be an expert, huh?” Osborne’s heart hit the floor of his Subaru.

“Expert on martinis, for sure—he’s on his fourth. And you know I don’t handle
that
real well. I told him when he dries

out … maybe. He didn’t care for the comment.” As if she knew what Osborne was thinking, she gave a low chuckle, “I have my hands full with you, Doc—in the water and out of the water. See you first thing in the morning?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bye.” The softness in her voice … he was glad he had called. The martinis considered, he was no longer worried.

Seated near the bar of the Bobcat Inn, Osborne studied the menu although he had known walking in what he would order. “Paul,” said Mary Lee, her voice petulant, “tell Abe he has to move us—we are regular customers and I do
not
want to sit at the bar. I mean, it’s impossible to see anyone.” You mean you can’t be seen, thought Osborne, but kept his mouth shut.

“Honey, we got here late and I don’t see an empty table,” he said. Mary Lee huffed and slammed her menu down. They usually sat at one of four tables set against the far wall and in front of an expanse of picture windows overlooking the lake—and the dining room. Osborne was well aware that his wife liked to spend more time checking out who was dining with whom than observing loons.

As determined as Mike chewing on one of Osborne’s favorite chamois gloves, Mary Lee was not about to give up. She leapt from her chair, tossed her purse to Osborne and pointed. A member of her bridge club had just been seated with her husband—at one of the
right
tables. “I’ll just see if Janie and Herb will let us join them.”

As Mary Lee crossed the room, a tinkling from the bar prompted Osborne to shift his chair for a better angle. He liked this table. It offered a front row view of the Bobcat Inn’s Friday night “special” that had been charming Loon Lake residents and tourists for years: Abe Conjurski playing musical medleys on an assortment of bar glasses with a cocktail stirrer.

While Abe entertained patrons of the restaurant with his tinkling renditions of classic tunes, his wife Patsy along with one other waitress—the two of them wiping the sweat from their foreheads—would bustle in and out of the kitchen with plate after plate of beer-battered walleye or perch, Patsy’s special cole slaw, and “your choice” of French fries or potato pancakes. For the Bobcat, Friday night fish fry was the most profitable night of the week.

The Osbornes ate there at least twice a month even though Mary Lee whined every time: “Pa-a-u-1, you know all our friends are at the Loon Lake Pub—and the Pub has a better fish fry, too. At least you get a choice of salads.”

“But they don’t have Abe and his music,” Osborne would remind her, “and keep in mind, Mary Lee, that Abner and Patsy Conjurski are patients of mine. It’s important that we patronize the Bobcat.” That was one of the few arguments he won.