“What’s your best guess?” I asked him. “Dead or alive?”
Headshake. He started the engine.
“If he is alive, there’s no way he could escape, is there?” Dietrich again. “Find some way out of the area, evade capture altogether?”
“No,” Novak said flatly, “there’s no way.”
He jammed the cruiser into gear, zoomed off toward Main.
“What now, Mr. Kent?”
“I don’t suppose we can get onto the Carey property. Look around up there ourselves.”
“No, they’ve got the entire area cordoned off. I drove by before I went to your place.”
“All right, then it’s back to the Kent digs.” I needed salve. I needed to lie low for a while. So many sticks in the bag now, the combined weight was about to split me apart at the seams. Humpty-Dumpty Kent. “After you drop me off, come back here and hang around. If there are any new developments, I want to know about them right away.”
“You’ll be home all day?”
“No. At the office later on. One or the other.”
“Are you planning to write the story about the murder, Mr. Kent? I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take a shot at it myself.”
“Go ahead.” What did I care? I couldn’t write it — not this one. “Just make sure you do it on your laptop at the station, and don’t forget to let me know the minute there’s any word on Faith.”
“You can count on me,” Dietrich said. “I sure hope they find him soon.”
“They damn well better.”
And he damn well better be dead when they do. The thought of Bigfoot alive, somehow managing to cheat capital punishment altogether, was even more intolerable than the thought of the corpse processor carving up the deceased with his trusty saw and scalpel.
Trisha Marx
We didn’t have any trouble crossing the lake and I found Nucooee Point okay, but getting us into the rickety old dock was kind of hairy. The water was covered with whitecaps, even though the wind wasn’t strong over on the east shore, and Ms. Sixkiller’s boat was bigger and had more power than the one we used to own. The first time I tried it, I shut down to idle in plenty of time but the current dragged us over faster than I expected and I didn’t get the gear lever into reverse soon enough. The left side — port side — banged hard into the float edge and for a second after we bounced off I thought we might capsize. But I quick put the power on and the boat settled and then we were out away from the dock again, going backward. I slid into neutral and let us drift while I chilled enough to give it another try.
John had his head out from under the canvas. “Sorry about that,” I said to him. “I’ll do better next time.”
“Still nobody in sight?”
“Uh-uh. You can come out now if you want.”
He pushed the canvas all the way back and eased himself up against the port gunwale. He was still in a lot of pain, you could see that, but he’d gotten some of his strength back and he moved better than before. He took in the cottonwoods and willows that grew thick along the shoreline on down to the Bluffs half a mile away. The lodge buildings were scattered inland among oaks and pepperwood trees, all except for the old dance pavilion downshore, south of the dock.
He said, “Can’t see the highway from here.”
“No. It’s on the other side of that big building straight ahead. Nobody out there can see us, either. Perfect, huh?”
“Yeah.” He sat up a little more, onto one hip so he could lean out over the side. “Ready when you are.”
I was more careful this time and I took us in with just a little bump and scrape against the float. John caught onto one of the rusty iron rings and held us close so I could clamber out and tie the bow line, then the stern line. I felt sort of spacey when I was done, like I was on this natural high. It made me tingle all over; I could feel it like a hand stroking down between my legs.
“Here,” John said, “take my wallet.” He must’ve got it out of his Levi’s on the way over, before he tied up the rest of his stuff with some fishing line and a lead sinker from the storage locker and dropped the bundle overboard. “Give it back to me when we get where we’re going.”
I put the wallet into my pocket, along with what was left of the tape and gauze pads. The peroxide, and a quart of OJ and a couple of apples I’d lifted from Ms. Sixkiller’s fridge when I went back for the key, I tied inside my jacket. It all made me bulge like a klepto on a spree. I kept the flashlight from the storage locker in my hand; we were gonna need it pretty soon. Then I helped John get out onto the float. Even with me to hang on to, his legs were so wobbly I was afraid he’d fall down. He said, “Let me rest a minute,” and leaned against one of the pilings and sucked in a bunch of deep breaths, holding the blankets closed around him. We must’ve been some sight, me all bulgy and him like a monk or something in those blankets.
I said, “Think you can walk okay?”
“How far?”
“A ways. Maybe a couple of hundred yards?”
“I’ll manage. We’ll just have to take it slow.”
We took it slow, my arm around his waist and his arm across my shoulders. There wasn’t any ladder to climb; the float was hooked to a railed ramp and the ramp took us onto an overgrown path. When we got up there we stopped again to rest.
Real quiet here; the only sound was the wind swishing in the trees. Spooky place at night, but during the day it wasn’t anything but a bunch of old redwood log buildings and what was left of a terrace and a couple of weedy tennis courts. The open-sided pavilion was in the worst shape; its lakeside wall had cracks in it and pieces of concrete missing where the cracks were widest, and the roof sagged on one side like it was getting ready to collapse. The six boarded-up cabins, three on each side of the inlet, seemed to be sinking into the ground on account of all the weeds and tall grass and oleander shrubs that had grown up around them. The main lodge, two stories high, crowded by oaks on both sides, was in the best shape. At least it looked pretty solid from back here, even with all its windows and doors covered with shutters and sections of plywood. The terrace made you think of some kind of jungle ruins, with all the stuff growing up through the flagstones and hunks of the plaster statues that’d toppled over and big pieces of concrete busted off what’d once been a fancy waist-high wall.
John asked, “What is this place?”
“Nucooee Point Lodge. Nucooee’s an Indian word for some kind of fish. Shiner fish, I think.”
“Indian land?”
“Well, it was once, a long time ago.” We were walking again, following what was left of the path leading to the terrace. “The lodge was built sixty or seventy years ago. Rich people’s resort, you know?”
“Abandoned how long?”
“A year or so. Shut down for a long time in the eighties, then somebody bought it about five years ago and reopened it, but they couldn’t get enough business. It’s up for sale again. My daddy says if it sells, it’ll just be for the land.”
“Caretaker?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Special patrols of any kind?”
“No. You don’t have to worry, John. Nobody’ll find you here.”
“We going to the main lodge?”
“Yeah. There’s a way inside.”
“How do you know?”
“Been in there. Couple of times last summer, a bunch of us came over and snuck in and partied. And again on Halloween.”
“Some place for a party.”
“Pretty cool, actually. Except for the bats.” I shuddered, remembering how one of the things had brushed past my face the first night. It made a sound like a leather belt being snapped close to your ear. Ugh. “Bats don’t bother you, do they? Or rats or spiders?”