The wind was blowing out of the northwest, creating a modest chop. The sun in a cloudless sky warmed his back. The last vestiges of winter, the remains of once-deep snowdrifts, were decaying into slush and gradually slipping away into the sand.
After 15 or 20 minutes, Ray settled onto a large, bleached tree trunk that had been pushed far up the beach by the storms of fall and winter. Simone approached and tried to crawl into his lap, her paws and belly wet and sandy. They reached a compromise: Simone perched beside him on the log, her head on his leg as she accepted head scratches.
Ray peered out at the lake and concentrated on the scene: the sounds, smells, rhythms, and colors of early spring. He tried to let everything else go and just enjoy the moment. On the periphery of his consciousness were visions of Fox and the disturbing autopsy report. When these thoughts intruded, he would push them back and refocus on the scene. This was one of the times he needed the wild places—empty of people—to refresh and refocus.
Eventually he looked at his watch, surprised that so much time had slipped by. He reached for his phone to see if Sue had responded to his e-mail. His pocket was empty; the phone was in the car.
When they arrived at the access road to the Hollingsford estate, Sue was already there, talking with a tall, lean, graying man next to a rusted Ford pickup with oversized tires and a raised suspension. A battered aluminum boat hung out of the truck’s bed, its pram bow extending far beyond the lowered tailgate.
“Have you met Perry Ashton?” Sue asked as Ray approached, holding Simone in his arms.
Ray passed the wiggly dog to her mistress and shook hands with Ashton.
“Was she a good girl?” asked Sue.
“Couldn’t have been better,” said Ray. Looking over at Ashton, he explained, “The dog was orphaned, and we co-parent her.”
“Cool,” responded Ashton in a low, raspy voice. “She coming along, too?”
“If it’s okay with you.”
“No prob, man,” he said, fishing for a cigarette.
“Mr. Ashton…”
“Perry, please.”
“Perry,” continued Sue, “was just telling me that this property was sold and he’s been terminated as of, what did you say, April first?”
“That’s right,” Aston agreed. “Got a certified letter last week. Been here 40-some years. All I get is a short letter saying that my services would no longer be needed, and would I please remove my personal things and vacate the property before April 1. My last paycheck was there, too. No thank you, no separation, no nothing other than a FedEx overnight envelope for the keys.”
Ray could tell by his tone and body language that he was angry and hurt.
“So, Sheriff, what do you and the deputy here want to know?”
“As I mentioned on the phone, we’re looking at a few cold cases. One of them involves the death of Terry Hallen. Our records from that time are less than complete, and it’s unclear if any final conclusions were ever reached in that investigation.”
“How is it that after all these years you’re finally looking at this? At the time, no one seemed to give a damn. As I remember it, they ruled it an accidental drowning.” He paused for a long moment, dragging on his cigarette. “I had to deal with that asshole deputy. I know you ain’t supposed to speak evil of the dead, but….” Ashford stopped and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Sheriff.”
“It’s okay. And to answer your question, in the course of another investigation, this case came up, and we decided to take another look.”
“It’s about time. Poor kid.” He let his last comment hang for a moment, then said, “Let’s get going.” Ashton took a final drag on his cigarette and flipped it into a water-filled ditch. “We should just go in my truck. The frost is coming out of the ground and there’re some big muck holes along the way. Those things won’t make it,” he said pointing at their vehicles.
Sue climbed in the passenger side of the truck and Ray passed Simone to her before pulling himself up, aided by a step and a handle—both coarsely fabricated from rebar and crudely welded to the side of the vehicle. The interior—old and battered—smelled of tobacco and gasoline. A faded car deodorizer hung from the mirror. Ashton turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. He revved the engine several times, let it drop back to idle, engaged the four-wheel drive, shifted into gear, and started up the access drive, bouncing through low spots, throwing water and mud. Ray, now holding onto Simone, smiled. He hadn’t been in a truck like this since high school.
Eventually, Ashton made a sharp right turn and reversed toward an opening in the trees that ended at the shoreline of Lost Lake. Ray helped drag the boat off the truck to the water’s edge and stood by as Ashton attached a small outboard.
They crossed the lake, Simone standing at the bow, Ashton at the stern, Ray and Sue in the middle. Running the front of the boat onto the beach, Ashton raised the outboard, and he and Ray pulled the boat halfway onto the beach. They followed a wide trail, marked on each side by a line of half-buried fieldstones.
“I used to put fresh woodchips on all these walkways every spring. Haven’t done it in years. No one has used the place in years except me and Carol,” said Ashton.
“How long has it been exactly since anyone from the family has been here?” Sue asked.
“A long time, years. Back before my time they’d come up every summer season. That lasted ‘til the 1970s, almost 100 years. Then the kids and grandkids started to build vacation homes in other places: Maine, the Outer Banks, California. Over the years they just seemed to get richer, don’t ask me how. Sometimes other folks, the extended family, would use the place, but the last few years, no one. I suppose it’s old, doesn’t have the stuff people expect these days. Plus it’s all going to hell. Back in the day, I’d submit a list of things that needed to done, give an estimated cost, and the money would come. I still send the lists, but nothing’s been funded for five years or more.” Their march along the path suddenly opened to the view of an imposing log structure. Ashton led them to the enormous front door that was standing slightly ajar.
“Someone’s kicked in the door again,” Ashton mumbled. “When I checked the place two weeks ago, everything was okay.”
“This has happened before?” asked Ray.
“Not in the old days. But seems like every other winter the last years. ATVs and snowmobiles make it easy to get in here.”
“Have you been reporting the break-ins?” asked Ray.
“I did the first few times, that’s before you were sheriff.” Ashton shrugged. “They weren’t much interested. I took out most everything worth stealing, got it in storage in Traverse.” They followed Ashton into the gloomy interior—the small, widely spaced windows were partially covered by thick maroon curtains. “Just hope I don’t have a big mess to clean up.”
“Would you switch on the lights?” asked Ray.
Ashton chuckled, pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and turned it on. “This is it, Sheriff. If you want the overheads, I’ll have to start the generator. Since it hasn’t been run since last fall, it’ll take a little doing.”
Ray and Sue followed Ashton on a walkthrough of the main lodge, Sue carrying Simone. There was little evidence that anything had changed over many generations—chintz-covered furniture, worn oriental rugs, shelves lined with faded books. Two snowshoes, bent ash with leather decks, hung above a large stone fireplace. A half-dozen antique duck decoys sat on the dark mantle. The air was damp and heavy and smelled of mildew.
“Usually I find the remains of a party, probably teenagers,” Ashton remarked as they moved from room to room. “You know, beer cans and cigarette butts, things tumbled over. I don’t know, though. Nothing out of place this time. Maybe they were just looking the property over. A prospective buyer.” Ashton laughed at his own joke. “Hell, it’s not my problem anymore.”