He took the stiff little body, washed the blood away as best he could and wrapped the dog in its favorite blanket. Using the dog's bed as its casket, he carried it out to the woods behind his house. He dug a deep hole, wrapped the dog and its bed in a canvas, and then buried it with a box of dog bones and Schatsky's favorite chew toys.
Schroeder marked the grave with a boulder. He went back into the cabin and lugged a wooden crate back to the woods and dug another hole not far from the dog's grave. He dumped the load of automatic and semi-automatic weapons into the hole and covered them up. He had kept a shotgun back at the cabin, just in case, but he no longer needed the deadly weapons he had kept hidden under his floor.
It was his way of marking an end to one chapter of his life. There was always a chance that something unpleasant from out of the past would catch up with him, but that would become less likely as he grew older. Karla would be coming to visit soon, and he had plenty of work to do getting kayaks and canoes ready for his guide business. But without the little dog padding around after him the cabin seemed very lonely.
He got into his pickup truck and drove off the mountain to his usual watering hole. It was still early in the day, and the bar was relatively quiet. Without some of the regulars to greet him, he felt even lonelier.
What the hell. He sat at the near-empty bar and ordered a beer. Then another. He was feeling sorry for himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw a woman, probably in her sixties, standing behind him. She had long, silvery hair, large brown eyes, and her tanned skin was barely wrinkled.
She introduced herself as an artist who had moved to Montana from New York. She had a bright smile and infectious laugh and a keen sense of humor, which she displayed in describing the cultural differences between the two places. Schroeder was so taken with her that he forgot to introduce himself.
"I detect a slight accent," she said.
Schroeder was about to go into his usual reply, that he was a Swede named Arne Svensen, but he stopped himself. There would have to come a time when he began to trust other human beings, and it might as well be now. "You have a good ear. I am Austrian. My name is Karl Schroeder."
"Nice to meet you, Karl," she said with a demure smile. "I'd like to go trout fishing, but I don't know where. Could you recommend a reliable guide?"
Schroeder gave her a big-toothed grin.
"Yes," he said. "I know just the man for you."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In re-creating the events surrounding one of history's worst sea disasters, the U-boat sinking of the German refugee ship Wilhelm Gustloff, this book relied heavily on The Cruelest Night by Christopher Dobson, John Miller and Ronald Payne. A number of sources provided inspiration for the chapters on giant waves, but perhaps the most dramatic was the BBC production Freak Wave, which included interviews with scientists and mariners alike. Our thanks as well to Sue Davis, president and CEO of the Stanley Museum, Kingfield, Maine.