Spider Lake (24 page)

John feared that if his son was still on the lake, his chances of survival would be small. He did his best to perish the thought, and to think for the best. Just fifteen minutes ago it had seemed the yellow boat was very near the shore. He couldn’t be sure of its real proximity to shore due to the diminished visibility caused by the choppy water, but he hoped that his son had made shore. He continued racing the Nomad wagon up the gravel road. The darkness which came next was startling. He pulled the light switch on the dash to open his headlights. He pressed the bright switch on the floor, but quickly switched back to the dims when the rain reflected the light limiting his visibility even more.

He was just finished dimming the headlights and rounding a corner, when suddenly right in front of him, in the time it took his wipers to move one half cycle across his windshield, he saw a set of stopped brake lights, and what looked like a tree laying across the road. He knew there was not enough time to stop his vehicle on the gravel surface. He slammed on his brakes, causing the Nomad wagon to pitch and slide sideways in the gravel. John braced for the inevitable collision. The impact would be on his side. He hoped that the person in the other vehicle was in a place that would protect them from the impact. Was it brake lights he saw? Or was it running lights? Just before the impact, John defensively ducked towards the passenger side, a move which may have saved his life.

Butch McCann was sitting in the front seat of the forty-nine Ford he had recently purchased, eating a Hostess Sno-Ball, and waiting for darkness to fall. He had parked the rust-bucket out at the airport for the last couple of weeks. He knew it wouldn’t be conspicuous to anyone there. Many of the fly boys in Chicago or Milwaukee kept their second hand cars at Oneida field so they would have ready ground transportation available to them after making the short flights to their vacation homes.

Butch had been out to the airport a couple of times to inquire about the cost of chartering a private plane from either Chicago or Minneapolis one way to the field, and how much time he would need in advance to book the transportation. He was given a list of small air-lines and private pilot’s who were offering the service. Butch thought it would be wise to keep the chartered flight under the proverbial radar, so he tipped the man for the name of a pilot that could fly, but was not too diligent about keeping accurate records. Someone who was not at all interested in the business of their passengers. The man slipped Butch a number that he could call.

Earlier that morning, Butch was transacting the business of his boss in the financial district of Chi-town. He had his dim-wit wife along for the trip this time. The previous night they had stayed at the Drake; and he had wined and dined her, paying for her portion of the meal off the books in cash. He also tipped the maitre d at the hotel to look the other way and include only himself on the guest register.

After the completion of the morning’s business, he took a taxi to Miegs Field where a man in a faded flight jacket was waiting for him. The two of them walked out on the tarmac and boarded the Beech Baron B55, and an hour and twenty minutes later, he was landing at Oneida, no questions asked. He took a deep breath when he started the wreck, but it roared to life as soon as he turned the key. Now he had plenty of time to kill. He decided to take a drive out to a county park well out of the area, and wait until evening before he made the trip back to Spider Lake.

Rosa would drive the black sixty-seven Lincoln back from the Chicago the following morning, and that was the only part of his plan that made him nervous. He had given her strict instructions to drive carefully, do the speed limit, pay for fuel only with cash and get receipts, and god-forbid if she should get into an accident, pay off the other driver with a bribe. He could still see her chewing away at her gum, and tilting her head with the vacant stare of a dog when he was explaining the importance of her keeping a low profile. He hoped she wouldn’t screw it up.

Later, he felt like he was a policeman in a stake-out, parked in the car a mile from the mansion on the shoulder of the gravel road. He didn’t expect any real police to be driving by out here in the middle of nowhere, but just in case one did, he had a ready excuse if need be. He didn’t want to be seen, but if he was that would still be alright. After all, he wasn’t breaking any laws. He would just tell the policeman who he was, where he worked, and why he was there. “Why officer, I was just ready to go out and pick some blueberries. They are ripe now, and my boss Mister Rule loves them on his breakfast cereal. My ID? Sure! Here it is. My name is McCann. I am the caretaker of the estate.”

Rule wouldn’t need to know he was there, even if he was seen out on the road. He took another bite of the Sno-Ball. He had been getting pretty warm in the parked vehicle, but up until now he had resisted rolling down the windows. The damn deer flies would eat him alive if he did, and he didn’t feel like fighting them. Now the wind was picking up, even buffeting the car, so he rolled them down half way on each side for a relieving cross-wind. The flies would be hunkering down in this wind, and that was just fine with Butch.

He could hear the rumblings of a distant thunderstorm. A storm would make wet work for the coming night, but it would also mask any sound that he might make, lessening the chance that he would be caught by the old man. He really did not have any excuse if that happened. What could he say that would convince the old guy that he wasn’t spying on him? Nothing. He would cross that bridge when he got to it— if he got to it. He would be very careful not to be caught by the old man. Very careful. He took a swig of the warm Nehi soda.

“Nothing like a warm drink of orange soda.” he muttered under his breath.

“Today Nehi, tomorrow champagne.” he smiled. “There’s no way the old guy knows exactly what he’s got, and what if he does, if he gripes they will just think he is senile. Besides, by then I will be long gone, maybe in Monte Carlo or Vegas.”

The storm was getting closer, and before the rain started falling, the wind created dust-devils from the gravel road. Butch rolled the windows back up to avoid getting dust in his eyes. The sky to the west was darkening and taking on the pea-soup color of a severe thunderstorm. It was going to be a big one. The first flashes of lightning caused him to jump in his seat. The rain began to fall slowly at first, and then heavier, but it was unsteady, stopping at times as if it was unsure what to do. The storm was very close now, seeming to speed up the clock from evening to dusk in a matter of minutes. Small limbs began to fall, and the lightning was getting fierce, falling on all sides of the Ford.

Butch decided to move the Ford closer to the estate property. He started the engine and put it in gear. The world outside the car was being turned upside-down. The branches which were falling all around him were getting larger. He didn’t easily become frightened, but the storm had him ducking his head with each new bolt. Leaves from some recently denuded unseen tree were sticking to his windshield, being pushed this way and that with the fast-moving wipers, causing his view to be obstructed.

There was a deep moaning outside that was causing Butch’s sphincter muscles to contract uncontrollably. He thought he was very near to the estate, but the surreal environment outside his window made it hard to tell how close he actually was. He slowed the vehicle— luckily just in the nick of time because a full-grown white pine had fallen from the sky not an eighth of a mile in front of him, blocking any passage. There was something else that fell with it. Something familiar. He slowed the Ford to a stop just behind the tree, and in the headlights he saw— the cupola that used to sit atop the mansion. The copper moose which acted as a lightning rod and weather vane was spinning wildly in the wind.

Butch just sat there, both hands on the steering wheel, dumbly looking at the scene in front of him in his headlights. What had happened? The whole thing had gone from an afternoon breeze to pandemonium in what seemed like a matter of minutes. He really was caught off guard. He didn’t know what to do. If he went to the mansion, he would be caught. If he stayed here, he would be caught. If he turned around and left, the old man would be on his own, and who knows, maybe even get himself killed. He may already be dead. He had to think fast. He was frozen in his place behind the wheel, and then, in his rear-view mirror, he seen the headlights which would make the decision for him.

He ducked his head down low and braced for the impact. He knew that his choice of leaving was no longer on the table.

en had lots of time on his hands. It was early afternoon and he was all alone. He thought about taking a ride into town, or taking a ride out of town, but in the end he decided to stay right where he was. It would be far easier and probably cheaper for him to roll to a fast-food joint for a burger, but he decided instead to buy a small bag of charcoal and some hot dogs at the convenience store, and do a little old-school camping. He took two trips up and down the hill, the first carrying his charcoal and food, and the next carrying a Styrofoam cooler loaded with beer and ice.

He lit the coals on the cast-iron grill and cracked open a cold one. He sat at the picnic table and thought about his morning’s visit with Carly Morton. He also thought about the previous night’s dream and what his father had said to him. It seemed strange to him that Carly would be so matter of fact about his cabin selection. When he had mentioned cabin four opening the next day, she hadn’t even flinched. If she was hiding any surprise from him she had done a masterful job of it.

There was something about the young woman that fascinated Ben. Any red-blooded man would be taken with her obvious beauty, but there was something more about her. The mixture of charm and wit she conveyed was rare, and Ben felt a little guilty about the amount of time he was spending thinking about her. He guessed that the mixture might be a blessing and a curse for her business as a resort owner. Men would definitely give her repeat business, but the wives would not be so enthusiastic.

He climbed off the picnic table top and pushed the coals around with a stick. He put a few dogs on the grill and cracked another ice-cold beer. He manned the grill with his stick acting as a makeshift spatula rolling the dogs more often than they really needed. He was wondering if Ms. Morton knew more than she was letting on. It really didn’t make any sense that she would; but Jill had known something, or at least sensed something hadn’t she? She had been secretly squirreling the money away for his trip for months. A shiver went up Ben’s spine. Every time he tried to rationalize the possibility of something supernatural pulling unseen strings like a giant marionette puppeteer in the sky, the goose-bumps would return.

He sat down at the table with his grilled lunch. The dogs tasted fine with the mustard and relish he had just purchased. He thought they would be far superior if he had onions and sport peppers and maybe a pickle spear like the dog places in Chicago. He opened another beer and washed down a third and final dog.

He wished it was tomorrow. Nothing would happen until then. It was going to be a long day. As he was sitting there, he noticed that jeep-man was still on the premises. His blue jeep was rolling way too fast up the camp road in the direction of the store. The usual suspects were riding in tow, and Ben could feel the bass notes an eighth of a mile away. He thought, “Why is it some people think that everyone in the neighborhood needs to hear their music?”

Ben took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. The digital readout on the device read three-twelve. He checked to see if there were any messages. There were none. He sat there at the table with nothing to do but people watch. Sometimes when you want the time to go by fast, when you are anxiously waiting for something, it slows down. Ben sighed and walked over to the cooler, grabbing another cold beer. He knew the afternoon would be a long one. It was too late for him to bide the time on his bike. It was too warm to lay down in his tent. He wished he was back at the resort, playing mental ping-pong with the new owner Carly.

He cleaned up the mess atop the picnic table and laid on top of it, looking up at the sky. He twice caught himself falling to sleep from too much beer and boredom, both times waking to the sound of his own snoring. He willed himself to get up. He didn’t want all the camping families to think he was some kind of derelict snoring away on top of his picnic table. He thought about how nice it would have been to have his family here. The campground was well-kept and his boys would have enjoyed the experience. They no-doubt would be swimming at the lake, and Jill and he would have their hands full just watching them.

He walked to the shower building and splashed cool water on his face. He drank as much water as he could at the drinking fountain, but the warm water didn’t offer any refreshment. He went back to the camp and tried to busy himself by checking the oil and coolant levels on his motorcycle. He checked the time again on his phone. Checking the fluids had used all of five minutes time, so he decided to throw in the towel and head for the bar. Maybe he could amuse himself at the pool table, or watch a game on the flat screen. He promised himself he would alternate each draft beer with an ice-water.