Dead Creek (11 page)

At
six-twenty-five
A.M
., Osborne walked into Saint Mary’s Church for early Sunday Mass. He took his seat, as he always did, on the right side of the church ten benches behind the choir. After receiving Communion, he circled back to his seat, as he always did, by walking down the center aisle toward the back of the church and past Judith Benjamin, kneeling in the last pew, her eyes downcast.

Out of habit, he looked straight ahead at the reflection in the glass doors as he turned to pass in front of them and return to his seat. To his surprise, he saw Judith turn her head first to the left to watch him pass and then to the right to follow him as he walked behind the last row of pews. He turned to go down the side aisle back to his seat with the uncomfortable sensation that she was watching him every step of the way.

He glanced back as he knelt in his own pew, his eyes traveling between bent heads to connect with Judith’s staring eyes. She looked away quickly. Osborne knelt very slowly. Knowing he was the target of such intense interest bothered him, and he wasn’t sure why. He found it difficult to concentrate on the Host and for the first time in years, he did not take five minutes to thank God for the property on the lake and the health of his children. Instead, as his tongue worked on the sticky little wafer, he wondered what it was that Lew knew about Judith.

Ray was waiting in his old pickup outside the church at seven-fifteen. He motioned to Osborne and moved over to let him drive. Fortunately for Osborne, the driver’s side door was the one that opened. The other door was permanently stuck so you had to crawl through the window to enter.

“Go-o-od morning, Doc,” Ray boomed, pulling happily at his beard as he slid over and angled his lanky frame into the passenger’s seat. “So why do the blind hate to sky-dive?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said Osborne as he pressed the clutch, turned the key, and pulled the steering wheel to his left to back out of the parking space, “Why?”

“Scares hell outta the dogs,” said Ray and laughed his old laugh: a silent bouncing of his body accented with twinkling eyes.

“Feeling better, I presume,” said Osborne dryly, pulling into the temporary traffic gridlock generated by everyone leaving Mass.

“Much better. Much, much better. You are driving with the champ, my friend.”

“Any luck reaching your sister and brother-in-law?”

“Not yet. I got their answering machine, and I left a message. I’ll try again around noon.”

The two drove in silence. It was a phenomenally beautiful spring day with sunshine glistening on the dewy firs. Osborne didn’t even mind that the driver’s side window wouldn’t close all the way. It made for a comforting flow of yeasty smells: leaf buds and fresh-melted snow. The loamy Wisconsin soil, ploughed last fall and almost soft enough for planting, gave off a warm, fertile odor with just a tinge of cow manure. The pickup sped up Highway 51 toward Boulder Junction, and Osborne listened patiently as Ray told one of his long, long stories about old Doc Shanahan and his mistress.

It seemed that about thirty years earlier, Ray and two young friends, one of them Shanahan’s grandson, witnessed a pleasurable though illegal act being performed on old Dr. Shanahan in the privacy of his very own home. The little scamps were watching from outside the living room window. Years later, the lovely lady engaged in the activity had walked into Loon Lake. Walked until she drowned. A suicide. Ray had his own theories on that, however, and Osborne heard them all in detail as they drove north. He listened with half an ear, keeping an eye out for the first buds on the tamarack and nodding whenever Ray paused for breath. They pulled into Boulder Junction twenty minutes before the festivities were to begin. Ray wound down his story with the punch line: “So y’see, the interesting thing is, Marsha was Judith Benjamin’s first girl.”

“What?” Osborne finally tuned in, but it was too late.

The one-street town was bustling as if it were a midsummer sidewalk-sale day. Banners hung from the gift shops, fly-fishing centers, and bait stores that lined the quarter-mile strip. Osborne felt good in the bright sun and crisp air. He swung the truck into a space near CoonSports, a sporting goods shop.

A good crowd for the season, given it was too early to see many out-of-towners, had gathered for the loon-calling event. Most of the attendees were familiar to Osborne, and every one seemed to be a best friend of Ray’s: predominantly male, including members of the sponsoring Lions Club, local fishing guides scouting business, seriously addicted muskie fishermen, and lots of mothers with small children.
Ray sure does know the world,
observed Osborne as he witnessed a parade of encouraging handshakes and backslaps.
He should run for office.
The contestants took their places on the small stage set up in the CoonSports parking lot.

Osborne sat down to wait patiently in a folding chair set toward the rear of the gathering. He was more than a little disappointed to discover the muskies hadn’t even been wrapped in their foil bakers and the charcoal was still cold. The fish wouldn’t be ready until late that afternoon. Darn! he thought. The news cast a pall over what had promised to be a fine day.

“Excuse me, Dr. Osborne?” Someone tugged at his sleeve.

He turned to see Winnie Grumbach, a former patient, and her husband, Walter, standing behind him. “I heard you asking about the muskie, Doctor,” said Winnie. “We’re going to be bringing some back to Loon Lake this evening for our son and his wife. Would you like us to drop some by for you?” She was a short, good-humored lady with a broad hook nose that made her look like a parrot. A parrot with dyed-black feathers and motherly eyes.

“Really?” said Osborne, reaching for his wallet. “I sure would. That’s very nice of you. Here—”

“No, no, Doc.” Walter put his hand out to push the two ten-dollar bills away. “Our treat.” Walter was all beige with a moon face and a very genial manner, which had served him well in the men’s clothing business. Osborne had known them since he arrived in Loon Lake. Nice people. Now that he could get some muskie, the day was good again. The obvious pleasure on his face must have served as an invitation.

“Doctor …” Winnie, who had put on about forty pounds since Osborne last saw her, parked her khaki-clad butt in the seat beside him and motioned to Walter to sit beside her, “I want to talk to you about those bodies you found.”

“Shush—after the contest, dear,” her husband said, patting her knee. “We need to include Ray, you know.” He pointed ahead.

They all focused their attention on the stage then as the MC for the festival introduced the contenders. About twenty-five people had shown up. However, hand votes from the crowd winnowed the competition down to two in less than half an hour.

Now the pros stood to challenge each other. The Canadian, a tall, handsome Metis, was good, very good. In fact, he was so good that Osborne had to applaud and felt sorry for Ray. He was sure the head injury was bound to take a toll on Ray’s wind if not his general well-being.

Ray ambled his long torso up to the microphone. He was wearing a warm red plaid Pendleton shirt with clean Levi’s and a good-looking deerskin vest that Donna had given him for his birthday. His eyes were serious over the carefully brushed and trimmed beard that reached to his chest. The stuffed trout was cocked jauntily over his ears. Though he had rolled his way up to the mike, shoulders slightly hunched, now he seemed to remember Osborne’s advice to stand up straight and pull in his gut. He threw his shoulders back and looked out over the audience.

Osborne closed his eyes and held his breath.

The haunting call of the loon started low and distant as if far across lake waters at dusk. Then the bird swept closer, its dark tones echoing over the reeds and gentle waves. He heard the mate answer and the two call back and forth, each distinct in tone, one overlapping the other. No sooner had the crescendo risen than the birds fell still, and the male turned his noble head to a rising moon. Now a low flutter of sound, then mounting urgency, then a hush … and a final aching hymn to the wild winds that kill and maim. With exquisite control, Ray gave voice to the ultimate challenge: the call of the wounded loon. Osborne exhaled slowly. He opened his eyes.

Walter and Winnie rose with him, the Lions Club members, the fishermen, the guides, and all the mothers and children to give Ray a standing ovation. He won hands down. He got the silver muskie to hang on the living room wall in his trailer for the next year. He also got coupons for free dinners at several restaurants, a gift certificate good at the men’s clothing store where Walter worked, and a case of Leinenkugel’s Original beer.

And he got Winnie glued to his side the minute he broke free of his admirers.

“Ray, about those bodies,” she said, looking up and tugging hard at his sleeve. “We need to talk.”

“She needs to talk to you,” echoed Walter from behind her. “Maybe in private?”

“Well, I dunno …” Ray’s eyes searched over their heads for Osborne, who nodded a silent okay.

“We’re headed for Susan’s up in Saint Germain,” said Ray, “I need pancakes.”

“We’ll follow you,” said Winnie.

During the twenty-minute drive, Ray and Osborne decided how much to tell, and Osborne was assigned to alerting Lew to the nature of their sources.

“I remember Mary Lee always looked down on Winnie for being a hairdresser part-time and for being an inveterate gossip,” said Osborne. “Not that Mary Lee wasn’t a vicious gossip herself when she had the chance.”

“Yeah? Well, gossip works both ways,” said Ray. “You give and you get. I’d like to know exactly what Winnie has picked up. That old gal is wired better than AT&T.” Osborne nodded.

With business covered, they drove in satisfied silence, Ray tickled with his success and Osborne pleased with the sunshine and the promise of a buttery muskie dinner.

Susan’s was bustling. Every table and even the twelve chairs at the counter were full. Something about the sunny Sunday had everybody in for late
A.M
. pancakes.

“Not to worry, Doc.” Susan, the proprietress, pushed her six-foot broad-shouldered frame through the crowded chairs and tables toward the doorway where Osborne, Ray, and the Grumbachs were standing. “I got a four-table opening up right now.”

Even as she spoke, four fishermen whom Osborne didn’t recognize rose to wave them over and introduce themselves. They’d been in the crowd for the loon call contest. Handshakes and back pats were exchanged as they congratulated Ray. “Now, be sure you have that homemade bread toast,” said one to Osborne as they finally turned to leave. Then everyone took a chair except Ray, who continued walking about the restaurant, happily accepting congratulations or announcing his victory to the ignorant. Osborne figured he’d be working the room for a good ten minutes or so.

“I never miss the homemade bread toast or Susan’s ham off the bone,” said Osborne as he pulled back a chair for Winnie. She plunked her chunky rear end down so fast, Osborne wondered if she thought someone was going to steal her chair. He was close. She certainly wanted to be sure no one stole his attention. Before their table was cleared, she had her purse open and had thrust a list of names in front of his face. It was clear Winnie had something to say.

She moved dirty plates and glasses back so the list sat squarely on the table in front of Osborne. “See this?” she started, leaning forward and keeping her voice low. “Do you know what this is?” Walter had also leaned forward. “I think these are the men you found in the water.”

“Winnie,” said Osborne, “I really can’t….”

“No, no.” She waved her hands at Osborne’s protest. “The word is out, Doc, and I know about the bodies. Now, you listen to me for five minutes.” Osborne knew when he’d been given directions, so he shut up, wrapped both hands around his coffee mug, and watched, his eyes intent on Winnie as she spoke.

“I’ve been working twenty hours a week as a receptionist at the Dairyman’s Association this year, and these are the names of four guests who disappeared six weeks ago. Everyone’s been frantic about it, but no one’s said anything to the police. In fact, we’ve only called one family so far. What’s weird is no one has called
us.
But these men are missing. I am ninety-nine percent sure they must be your bodies. So I want you to tell me what to do next, Dr. Osborne. Someone needs to know.”

Osborne looked at her blankly. He was stunned. “Jesus. Let me get Ray over here. Then we’ll talk.” He stood up and motioned over the heads of nearby diners to Ray. The look on his face must have been enough, because Ray stopped in happy midsentence and excused himself to hurry over and sit down.

“Winnie thinks she knows who the victims are,” whispered Osborne into Ray’s ear as they both sat down. He pushed the list in front of Ray and waited. Ray looked down. Osborne pointed to one name with a Des Moines, Iowa, address. Ray nodded.

Everyone around the table knew the Dairyman’s Association, known locally as the Dairy. It was the odd name for a very exclusive hunting and fishing preserve whose membership had once been exclusively bluebloods from Chicago. In existence since the late 1800s, the Dairy was a favorite haunt of the wealthy scions of the meat-packing fortunes. Few locals, including Osborne, had ever set foot behind the huge wrought-iron gates.

“Who the hell are these people?” asked Ray. “These names mean nothing to me.”

“We checked ‘em in as a group,” said Winnie, ready to launch into her case. “But see how they come from all over the country? They’re members of something called the Young President’s Organization. My boss calls it the YPO.”

“I know of the YPO,” said Osborne. “Wausau’s got a chapter. There was a gal in Mary Lee’s bridge club whose first husband had been a member of the YPO out of Milwaukee. Mary Lee was quite impressed, but I thought it all sounded pretentious as hell.”