Dead Renegade (5 page)

“All right, what’s the punch line of this bad joke?” Erin asked, leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms folded, a testy look directed at Ray.

“Make sure the car doors are locked.”

“Honestly, Ray, that isn’t even funny.”

With a grin, Ray shrugged. “I tried.” C.J. laughed and he winked at her. Then he got to his feet to help Erin move dishes to the sink.

“So I’ve got some interesting news,” he said. “You heard Loon Lake is going to host the North American Ice Fishing Circuit Championship this winter, right?”

“I didn’t know that,” said Osborne. “Right here on
our
Loon Lake?” He nodded at CJ. and said, “Wisconsin has fourteen Loon Lakes.”

“Yep, but you had to qualify last year.”

“Oh. Guess that means none of us can fish it?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not all bad. I got three calls this morning from pros asking me to help ‘em learn the honey holes. I’ll charge good money for that, too, doncha know.”

“Like how much?” asked Erin, reaching for the plate in front of C.J., who refused to take her eyes off Ray. Osborne had to admit his neighbor was looking particularly good in crisp khaki shorts and a dark green T-shirt. But it wasn’t until he carried the kids’ milk glasses to the sink that they could see the orange lettering across the back of the shirt, which read: “Why are men are like ceramic tile? If you lay ‘em right, you can walk over ‘em for years.”

“Did Mrs. Taggert make your shirt, too?” asked C.J.

“Ah, no,” said Ray, turning around with a chuckle. Osborne suspected it was a gift from a former girlfriend. Ray chose to answer Erin’s question instead: “Oh, I’m thinking a hundred bucks an hour or so. What do you think? Erin? Doc?”

“That’s a lot of money for a guy who makes ten bucks an hour digging graves,” said Erin.

“You dig graves?” said C.J., her eyes widening.

“Only … when the fishing is … slow,” said Ray, sitting back down in his chair, thrusting out his long legs and settling into a speech pattern he knew would drive Osborne and Erin nuts. “I … happen to have multiple … pursuits and my … cemetery responsibilities’ … are likely to come off my list this year.

“That is …” he waved an index finger, which Osborne recognized as the Ray Pradt signal that he was about to deliver words of wisdom, if not national importance, “… if a … par-tic-u-lar new opportunity works out … as … I believe it will. Could be … I’ll end the winter …
ahead
so to speak.”

“And that
new opportunity
—is that the guiding?” Osborne asked, checking his watch. It was nearly time to head back to Nystrom’s for the meeting with Lew.

“O-o-o-h-h-h, no,” said Ray, each vowel elongated for maximum impact. “
Ice Men
is what it is.” Sitting up and splaying his hands across the kitchen table, he dropped the slow cadence to say, “a new reality show that is going to be shot up here. Auditions are being held here next week and …” he lifted both eyebrows as he grinned, “I’m all signed up.”

“You mean
you
could be on TV?” said C.J.

“I surely could. On the Sportsman’s Channel, no less. And
that
…”—another wave of the index finger—”is a gig made for me.”

“A
jig,
did you say?” said Erin, teasing. She tipped her head towards C.J., “You fish walleyes with a jig. Ray’s a walleye expert—aren’t you, Ray?”

“You heard me, Erin. I’m not kidding—a
gig
is what I said. Paid work … fame … fortune … all the good stuff. Seriously,” said Ray, leaning forward on his elbows, “this could be my big break.”

“Wow!” said C.J. “That is s-o-o-o exciting.” The expression in her eyes had to make Ray’s day. Osborne repressed a smile as she checked her watch, “Oh gosh! I better get going. Curt is going to wonder …”

“Before you leave,” said Erin, “tell me how I can reach you. I am so worried about Mason. If I can get her to talk about whatever it was that scared her this morning, I might have a few questions for you.” She handed C J. a piece of paper for her to write down her number. Erin turned to her father, and frustration clouded her face. “Dad, would you see if
you
can get her to talk? She tells you more stuff*than she ever tells me or her dad …”

Til do my best, Erin,” said Osborne, “but it’ll have to be after I help Lew with the situation at Bart Nystrom’s place. I’ll stop back around four or so—take her for ice cream.”

“Doc,” said Ray, “aren’t you going to the class reunion with Chief Ferris tonight? I heard they’re having pizza and beer out at Smokey’s for the early arrivals. Can’t believe you’re not going.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh. Sorry I mentioned it.” A look of chagrin crossed Ray’s face.

“So
that’s
why you’ve been so glum,” said Erin, “I could tell something was wrong.”

“I’m not glum,” said Osborne. “Reunions are of interest only to the people who went to school together. You know that.”

Ray and Erin stared at him.

“Believe me, it’s not an issue,” said Osborne with a wave of his hand. “Lew has lots of old friends to catch up with and she doesn’t need to be bothered with me.”

“Right, okay,” said Ray, sounding less than convinced.

“Hey, I have an idea,” said C.J. from where she stood in the doorway, not quite having left yet. “Dr. Osborne, why don’t you bring Mason out to our lake house this afternoon? I’ll take her tubing and we’ll have some fun. Maybe that’ll change her mood a little—who knows?

“How ‘bout you, Ray? Would you like to join us? I’d love you to meet my husband—he’s been looking to hire a good fishing guide …”

CHAPTER
8

P
ulling onto the street, foot heavy on the gas, Osborne headed south. He was determined to get back to the Nystrom Antiques Emporium by two, if not earlier. If he was lucky, Lew might have a few extra minutes to chat. With that in mind, he decided to think positive: what if she changed her mind and decided it
would
be nice to have him tag along this evening?

The thought was not out of order. After all, how many afternoons had she surprised him with an unexpected phone call: “Doc, I’ve got two deputies on duty right now and the day is too glorious to work. Let’s go fishing!”

His mood brightening, Osborne was four blocks down from Erin’s house and slowing for the stoplight when he happened to glance off to his right at a squalid matchbox of a house. A shambles of peeling paint, warped shingles, crumbling eaves caved in over a back porch and a rusted out, once-white pickup in the driveway, it was a house and a truck he had seen a million times. But today another vehicle was parked behind the pickup. A vehicle he knew too well.

The house was typical of others in Loon Lake that had been built in the early nineteen hundreds for workers employed at the once-thriving paper mill: each a squared-off single story home with an average of five rooms. The largest room would be a kitchen, opening to a small living room that had doors leading to a couple bedrooms and one bath.

Though the exterior of the little house was in desperate need of a paint job, a narrow border of grass nestled between the house and a crumbling rock wall bordering the sidewalk meant something to someone: pristine clay pots of pink petunias spilled their blooms like offered prayers at the feet of two stone figurines.

The cracked concrete walkway leading up to the front door was blessed with the presence of a three-foot high statue of the Virgin Mary, head bowed and hands folded in prayer, the blue of her mantle long faded from the sun. At the far end of the border and facing the street was a brown-robed St. Francis of Assisi, a tiny sparrow poised on the fingertips of his left hand, a birdbath cradled in his right. Two religious icons that many residents of Loon Lake, Osborne included, found ironic; neither had been able to buttress the house from the evils occurring within.

Osborne knew the homeowner as a fellow parishioner at St. Marys Catholic Church. Edna Shradtke might be in her seventies but she never missed Mass on Sundays, six-thirty a.m. rain or snow, sitting year after year at the same end of the same pew, a pew two rows down from Osborne’s. So it was that every Sunday morning he followed her slow walk up to the Communion rail and back. She never drank from the chalice, nor did he.

Widowed thirty years now, Edna was unusually tall for a woman of her generation. Bone-thin with facial features that Osborne found slightly askew due to the angle and crook of her nose—the result of its having been broken several times during her marriage to a short, thick man who had been known to beat her and their four children nightly before he had the good grace to fall out of his fishing boat one night dead drunk.

The beatings were known town-wide because they could be heard by the neighbors. But what Osborne didn’t know until after he had lost his wife was that one of Edna’s sons had once attempted to molest his eldest daughter, Mallory. While he may not have known of that incident until years after it had occurred, he knew plenty about the man who did it: Bobby Shradtke. And he sure as hell knew Bobby’s car.

The unexpected sight of that car for the first time in years triggered a memory of such impact that Osborne had to pull over. He held his breath as his mind churned through the details of a conversation he would never forget—and made a connection so disturbing he felt sick to his stomach.

Twenty-three years ago, the driver of that car had followed nine-year-old Mallory home from the Loon Lake skating rink one January night. Osborne and his wife had not yet built their lake home, so the family lived in town just three blocks from the rink. A polite child, Mallory was careful to follow parental instructions and address adults as “Mr.” or “Mrs.” no matter who they were. Grown-ups were grown-ups—to be treated with respect.

So when the man in the red car asked directions to the Loon Lake Pub she did her best to answer until he opened his door, exposed himself and tried to drag her inside—all the while hee-hawing in a strange, high whinny, a noise which Mallory told Osborne still gives her nightmares.

His car stopped at the curb across the street from Edna’s home, Osborne stared at the vehicle in the driveway. He was sure it was the same one: a red 1960 Ford Sunliner convertible with a white top. While the tailfins, chrome and hulking size might spark fond memories among some car buffs, he felt only a mounting nausea.

The longer he looked, the more he was sure: that expression on Mason’s face, her refusal to tell her mother what had frightened her this morning. Mallory had behaved just like that after the episode with the stranger in the car.

He remembered how he and Mary Lee had known something was up that night when Mallory dashed into the house crying, her shoulders shaking. But she had insisted it was nothing, refusing to answer their questions until they decided she must have had a falling out with one of her little friends and hurried her off to bed. Mary Lee would never know what really happened because Mallory kept her secret for years—until the day after her mother’s funeral.