In the Lake of the Woods (19 page)

Wade felt a curious shyness as they touched cheeks.

"Still nothing," he said. "Let me help with that."

He took her suitcase and led her up to the car, talking fast, feeling clumsy and thick-tongued as he tried to summarize the steps Lux had taken.

Pat seemed distracted. "No sign at all?"

"Not yet. No."

"How long has it been?"

"Two days. A little more." He tried out a smile. "The weather's decent, we don't have to worry about that part. She's probably all right."

"Shit."

"Almost for sure."

Pat got into the car, buckled the seat belt, folded her arms tight to her chest. For the first mile or two she kept her eyes straight ahead.

"Two days," she finally said. "You could've called a little sooner. No big joy to hear about it on TV."

"I didn't know if ... I kept thinking she'd be back."

"She's my
sister.
"

"Sorry. You're right."

"Goddamn right I'm right."

Pat shifted uncomfortably in her seat. For the rest of the ride nothing much was said.

When they reached the cottage, Wade parked near the porch and carried her suitcase inside. The place had a musty, unlived-in smell, dank and oppressive. On the kitchen table was a note from Claude and Ruth saying they'd gone off to pick up a few things, they'd be back in an hour.

Pat sniffed the air and kicked off her sneakers.

"I'll shower," she said, "then we'll talk."

"Hungry?"

"Maybe a little."

Wade led her down the hall to the spare bedroom, dug out a clean towel, then returned to the kitchen and opened up a can of minestrone. He tried to imagine a happy conclusion to things. A call from Lux. Kathy walking in the door. Grinning at him, asking what was for lunch.

The fantasies didn't help.

He dumped the soup in a pan, got out the bread and butter. He could hear the shower going down the hall.

Right now, he told himself, caution was the key. Almost certainly Kathy had confided in Pat about certain things. Which could cause difficulties. And there was also that resentment in her eyes, the suspicion, whatever it was.

He gave the soup a stir.

For a few minutes he stood very still, gliding here and there. Too many discontinuities, too many mind-shadows. His eye fell on the iron teakettle. On impulse he picked it up, took it outside and dumped it in the trash.

When he came back in, Pat was sitting at the kitchen table. She wore a pair of baggy blue shorts and a U of M sweatshirt. Her hair was slicked straight back.

Wade dished up two bowls of soup.

"All right," she said. "So talk."

 

She was mostly interested in practical matters—Kathy's health, the search, the condition of the boat—and over the next half hour Wade did his best to give short, practical answers.

The boat, he said, was perfectly serviceable. No health problems. A good professional search.

Not too bad, he thought, but not easy either.

On occasion he could see doubt forming in her eyes, all the personal issues, and it was a relief when she stood up and asked to see the boathouse. He led her down the slope, opened up the double doors, and stood to one side as she stared down at the dirt floor. For a while she was quiet.

"Doesn't make sense," she said. "I don't get it."

"Get it?"

"That day. Where was she
going?'

Wade looked away. "Hard to tell. Into town, I guess. Or maybe—I don't know—maybe for a ride."

"A ride?"

"Maybe."

"For no reason?"

Wade shrugged. "She didn't need reasons. Sometimes she'd take off without ever ... Just pick up and go."

"Not exactly. She had reasons and more reasons."

"That's not really—"

"Way too
many
reasons."

Pat turned and went outside and stood hugging herself at the edge of the lake. After a few minutes Wade followed. "She'll be fine," he said. "It'll work out."

"I just feel—"

"What we'll do, I'll arrange for a boat tomorrow. Get out there and give a hand. At least it's something."

"Right, something," she said.

They stood looking out at the lake. Pat reached down and splashed a handful of water against her face.

"God," she said. "I'm afraid."

"Yes."

"The last time I talked to her ... I don't know, she seemed so happy. Like she could finally relax and get on, with her life."

"Happy?" Wade said.

"The fact that it was all over. The politics."

"I didn't know."

"You should have." Pat waited a moment, then sighed and hooked his arm. The gesture startled him—he almost back off.

"Bother you?" she said. "Body contact?"

"Just the surprise."

"Oh, I'll bet. Let's walk."

 

They followed the dirt road for a quarter mile, then turned south on a path that curled through deep forest toward the fire tower. Leafy autumn filled the air, but even so the afternoon had the temperate, almost silky feel of mid-summer. They crossed an old footbridge and followed a stream that bubbled along off to their left. Despite himself, Wade couldn't help scanning the brush. Kathy had walked this trail almost every day since they'd taken the cottage, the same spongy earth, and now he was struck by the sensation that she was somewhere close by. Watching from behind the pines, maybe. Playing some ghostly game with his life.

After twenty minutes they reached the fire tower. A green and white Forest Service sign warned against trespassing.

"Nice spot," Pat said. "Very outdoorsy."

She sat down in a patch of sunlight, studied him for a moment, then yawned and tilted her face up to the sky. "So tired," she said, "so dead, dead tired."

"We can head back."

"Soon. Not yet."

Wade lay back in the shade. The forest seemed to wash up against him, lush and supple, and presently he shut his eyes and let the glide carry him away. A butterfly sensation. Maybe it was the mild autumn air, or the scent of pine, but something about the afternoon made his breathing easier. Pleasant memories came to mind. Kathy's laughter. The way she slept on her side, thumb up against her nose. The way she'd go through five or six packs of Life Savers a day. Lots of things. Lots of good things. He remembered the times back in college when they'd gone dancing, how she'd look at him in a way that made him queasy with joy, totally full, totally empty.

Joy. That was the truth.

And now it was something else. Ambition and wasted time. Everything good had gotten lost.

For a while he let the guilt take him, then later he heard Pat sit up and clear her throat. A woodpecker was rapping in the woods behind them.

"John?"

"Yes."

"Nothing. Forget it." A few minutes passed. "You know what I keep thinking? I keep thinking what a good person she is. Just so good."

"I know."

"In love, too. Crazy about you."

"It went both ways."

Pat shook her head. "Like a little girl or something, all tied up in knots. Couldn't even think for herself—John this, John that. Drove me up the wall."

"I can understand that."

"Can you?"

"Sure. I think so."

Pat brushed a clump of pine needles from her arm. In the streaky sunlight her hair took on a color that was only a tone or two away from gray. "What I mean," she said, "I mean Kathy sort of—you know—she almost
lost
herself in you. Your career, your problems."

"Except for the dentist," Wade said.

"That was nothing."

"So I'm told. It didn't feel like nothing."

"Knock it off. The guy was just a walking panic button, something to wake you up. That's what the whole stupid fling was all
about—
to make you see what you were losing. Besides, it's not like you didn't have some private crud of your own."

"Not that kind. I've been faithful."

"Faithful," Pat muttered. She waved a hand. "And what about Little Miss Politics? Wooing the bitch day and night. That's faithful, I'm the rosy red virgin."

Wade looked straight at her. "I had my dreams," he said. "So did Kathy. It was something we shared."

"You're not serious."

"I am."

"Man, you really
didn't
know her, did you? Kathy despised it all. Every shitty minute. The political wifey routine-paste on the smiles and act devoted. It gets pretty damned demeaning."

"But we had this—"

"John, listen to me. Just
listen.
Hate, that's a polite way of saying it. She used to get the shakes out in public, you could actually see it, like she was packed in ice or something. Completely obvious. All you had to do was look."

"I did look."

"All the wrong places. Which is something we haven't touched on yet. The great spy."

Wade shook his head. "There were problems, maybe, but it's not like we were on different tracks. I wanted things, she wanted things."

"Wanted?"

"Want. Still want."

"I won't argue."

"Pat, there's nothing to argue about."

She sat rocking for a time, toying with a heavy silver bracelet on her wrist, then made a small, dismissive motion with her shoulders.

"We should go."

"Right, fine," Wade said. "Just to be clear, though, Kathy and I had something together. It wasn't so terrible."

"That's not quite the point."

"Which is what?"

Pat seemed to flinch. "We shouldn't talk about it."

"
What
point?"

"Let's just—"

"No. What's this wonderful point?"

They looked at each other with the knowledge that they had come up against the edge of the permissible. Pat stood and brushed herself off. "All right, if you want the truth," she said. "Kathy got pretty scared sometimes. The detective act. The stuff you'd yell in your sleep. It gave her the heebie-jeebies."

"She told you that?"

"She didn't have to. And then the headlines. One day she wakes up, sees all that creepiness splashed across the front page. Finds out she's hooked up with a war criminal."

"Bullshit," Wade said. "It wasn't that simple."

"No?"

"Not by half."

"Well, whatever. She's your wife. You could've opened up, tried to explain."

Wade looked down at the palms of his hands. He wondered if there was anything of consequence that could be said.

"Very noble, but it's not something you sit down and explain. What could I
tell
her? Christ, I barely ... Looks real black and white now—very clear—but back then everything came at you in these bright colors. No sharp edges. Lots of glare. A nightmare like that, all you want is to forget. None of it ever seemed real in the first place."

"What about the dead folks?"

"Look, I can't—"

"Awfully goddamned real to them." Pat swung around and looked at him hard. "You didn't do something?"

"Do?"

"Don't fake it. You know what I mean." She watched him closely for a few seconds. There were birds in the trees, ripples of sunlight.

"No," Wade said, "I didn't
do
something."

"I just—"

"Sure. You had to ask."

 

Ruth and Claude were waiting for them back at the cottage. Wade made the introductions, excused himself, and went to the phone to put in a call to Lux. The sheriff's voice seemed hollow and very distant. "No dice," he said, "I'm sorry," and after a short silence the man made a clucking sound that could've meant anything, maybe sympathy, maybe exasperation.

When he hung up, Wade looked at the clock over the kitchen stove. The cocktail hour. Reformation could wait. He fixed four stiff screwdrivers, got out a box of crackers, and carried everything on a tray to the living room. Claude and Ruth were talking quietly with Pat, who sat cross-legged on the sofa.

The old man lifted his eyebrows.

"Nothing," Wade said. He passed out the drinks. "I'll want a boat tomorrow. Probably all day."

Claude nodded. "Six-thirty sharp. Just be ready."

"Fine, but there's no need to tag along."

"Hell there isn't. Last thing I need, it's two more customers out there. Public relations, all that."

Wade shrugged. "Fine, then. Thanks."

"Nothing to thank. Six-thirty."

After fifteen minutes Pat went back to the spare bedroom. Claude and Ruth stayed for another drink, then Wade walked them out to the old man's pickup. When they were gone, he went back inside, built a fire in the stone fireplace, freshened his drink, and sat down with a
Star-Tribune
that Claude had picked up in town. Kathy was page-two news. He skimmed through the piece quickly, barely concentrating. There were quotes from Tony Carbo, who expressed his concern, and from the governor and the parry chairman and a couple of Kathy's colleagues at the university. Below the fold was a grainy photograph taken on primary night. Kathy stood with one arm hooked around Wade's waist, the other raised in a shielding motion. Her eyes were slightly out of focus, but there was no mistaking the radiance in her face, the purest elation.

Wade put the paper down. For several minutes he sat watching the fire.

"Oh, Kath," he said.

He finished his drink and went out to the kitchen for replenishment.

 

It was a bad night. Too much vodka. He kept tumbling inside himself, half asleep, half awake, his dreams folding around the theme of depravity—things he remembered and things he could not remember.

Around midnight he got up.

He put on jeans and a sweatshirt, found a flashlight, and made his way down to the boathouse.

He wasn't certain what was drawing him out. Maybe the dreams, maybe the need to know.

He opened up the doors and stepped inside, using the flashlight to pluck random objects from the dark: an anchor, a rusty tackle box, a stack of decoys. A sense of pre-memory washed over him. Things had happened here. Things said, things done. He squatted down, brushed a hand across the dirt floor, and put the hand to his nose. The smell gave him pause. He had a momentary glimpse of himself from above, as if through a camera lens. Ex-sorcerer. Ex-candidate for the United States Senate. Now a poor hung-over putz without a trick in his bag.