At forty-six, Shellane was a thick-chested slab of a man with muscular forearms, large hands, and a squarish homely face. His whitish blond hair had gone gray at the temples, and his blue eyes were surprisingly vital by contrast to the seamed country in which they were the only ornament. He customarily dressed in jeans and windbreakers, a wardrobe designed to reinforce the impression that he might be a retired cop or military man—he had learned that this pretense served to keep strangers at bay. His gestures were carefully managed, restrained, all in keeping with his methodical approach to life, and he did not rattle easily. Realizing that assassins had found him in Detroit merely caused him to make an adjustment and set in motion a contingency plan that he had prepared for just such an occasion.
When he reached the Upper Peninsula, he headed west toward Iron Mountain, intending to catch a ferry across to Canada; but an hour out of Marquette, just past the little town of Champion, he came to a dirt road leading away into an evergreen forest, and a sign that read: Lakeside Cabins—Off-Season Rates. On impulse he swung the Toyota onto the road and went swerving along a winding track between ranks of spruce. The day was sunny and cool, and the lake, an elongated oval of dark mineral blue, reminded Shellane of an antique lapis lazuli brooch that had belonged to his mother. It was surrounded by forested hills and bordered by rocky banks and narrow stretches of brownish-gray sand. Under the cloudless sky, the place generated a soothing stillness. A quarter-mile in from the highway stood a fishing cabin with a screen porch, peeling white paint, a tarpaper roof, and a phone line—it had an air of cozy dilapidation that spoke of evenings around a table with cards and whiskey, children lying awake in bunk beds listening for splashes and the cries of loons. Several other cabins were scattered along the shore, the closest about a hundred yards distant. Shellane walked in the woods, enjoying the crisp, resin-scented air, scuffing the fallen needles, thinking he could stand it there a couple of weeks. It would take that long to set up a new identity. This time he intended to bury himself. Asia, maybe.
A placard on the cabin door instructed anyone interested in renting to contact Avery Broillard at the Gas ’n Guzzle in Champion. Through a window Shellane saw throw rugs on a stained spruce floor. Wood stove (there was a cord of wood stacked out back); a funky-looking refrigerator speckled with decals; sofa covered with a Mexican blanket. A wooden table and chairs. Bare bones, but it suited both his needs and his notion of comfort.
The Gas ’n Guzzle proved to be a log cabin with pumps out front and a grocery inside. Hand-lettered signs in the windows declared that fishing licenses were for sale within, also home-baked pies and bait, testifying by their humorous misspellings to a cutesy self-effacing attitude on the part of ownership. The manager, Avery Broillard, was lanky, thirtyish, with shoulder-length black hair and rockabilly sideburns; he had one of those long, faintly dish-shaped Cajun faces with features so prominent, they seemed caricatures of good looks. He said the cabin had been cleaned, the phone line was functional, and quoted a reasonable weekly rate. When Shellane paid for two weeks, cash in advance, Avery peered at him suspiciously.
“You prefer plastic?” Shellane asked, hauling out his wallet. “I don’t like using it, but some people won’t deal with cash.”
“Cash is good.” Avery folded the bills and tucked them in his shirt pocket.
Shellane grabbed a shopping basket and stocked up on cold cuts, frozen meat and vegetables, soup, bread, cooking and cleaning necessities, and at the last moment, a home-baked apple pie that must have weighed close to four pounds. He promised himself to eat no more than one small slice a day and be faithful with his push-ups.
“Get these pies made special,” Avery said as he shoveled it into a plastic bag. “They’re real tasty.”
Shellane smiled politely.
“Might as well give you one of these here.” Avery handed him a leaflet advertising the fact that the Endless Blue Stars were playing each and every weekend at Roscoe’s Tavern.
“That’s my band,” Avery said. “Endless Blue Stars.”
“Rock and roll?”
“Yeah.” Then, defensively, “We got quite a following around here. You oughta drop in and give a listen. There ain’t a helluva lot else to do.”
Shellane forked over three twenties and said he would be sure to drop in.
“If you’re looking to fish,” said Avery, continuing to bag the groceries, “they taking some pike outta the lake. I can show you the good spots.”
“I’m no fisherman,” Shellane told him. “I came up here to work on a book.”
“You a writer, huh? Anything I might of read?”
Shellane resisted an impulse to say something sarcastic. Broillard’s manner, now turned ingratiating, was patently false. There was a sly undertone to every word he spoke, and Shellane had the impression that he considered himself a superior being, that the Gas ’n Guzzle was to his mind a pit stop on the road to world domination, and as a consequence he affected a faux-yokelish manner toward his patrons that failed to mask a fundamental condescension. He had bad luck eyes. Watered-down blue; irises marked by hairline darknesses, like fractures in a glaze.
“This one’s my first,” said Shellane. “I just retired. Did my twenty, and I always wanted to try a book. So…”
“What’s it about,” Avery asked. “Your book.”
“Crime,” said Shellane, and tried to put an edge on his smile. “Like they say—write what you know.”
It took him until after dark to settle into the cabin, to order an Internet hook-up, to prepare and eat his dinner. Once he’d finished with dessert, he poured a fresh cup of coffee, switched on his laptop and sent an email that prevented a file from being sent to the U.S. Justice Department. The file contained a history of Shellane’s twenty years as a thief, details of robberies perpetrated and murders witnessed and various other details whose revelation might result in the indictment of several prominent members of Boston’s criminal society. It was not that effective an insurance policy. The men who wanted to kill him were too arrogant to believe that he could bring them down, and perhaps their judgment was accurate; but knowing about the file had slowed their reactions sufficiently to allow his escape. He was confident that he would continue to stay ahead of them. However, this confidence did not afford him the satisfaction that once it had. It had been many years since Shellane had derived much pleasure from life. Survival had become less a passion than a game he was adept at playing. Lately the game had lost its savor. Apart from the desire to thwart his pursuers, he was no longer certain why he persevered.
He was about to shut down the computer when he heard a noise outside. He went into the bedroom, took the nine-millimeter from his suitcase, and holding it behind him, went out onto the porch and nudged open the screen door. A slim figure, silhouetted against the moonstruck surface of the water, was moving briskly away from the cabin. Shellane called out, and the figure stopped short.
“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “I was out for a walk. The lights…I didn’t know the cabin was rented.”
“It’s okay.” Shellane stuck the gun into his belt behind his back and pulled his sweater down over it. “I thought it was an animal or something.”