Windigo Island (16 page)

“I’m free most of the afternoon,” he offered. “How about two o’clock?”

“That’s fine,” Jenny said.

“I’ll tell our receptionist to expect you.”

She ended the call, looked at her father, and gave him a thumbs-up. “We’re in.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s just a foot in the door.”

“What door?”

They both swung around, and there was Daniel, face smooth in the sunlight, eyes deep brown and quizzical.

Jenny told him everything. Gushed actually. She felt as if she finally had both hands around the throat of the situation. She realized that her body was tingling. Although she wasn’t the hunter
that her father and probably Daniel were, she wondered if this was what they felt when they were deep into the chase.

“So you’ll be the magazine writer,” Daniel said to her, then looked at Cork. “And you?”

“I just need a camera,” Cork said. “Then I’m the official photographer.”

Meloux rose from his bench and came to them. Jenny thought he would look serene from his communion with the sun and the lake and whatever else he might have perceived that they did not. But he was clearly troubled. She hoped to set his mind at rest and told him what they were up to.

He listened, but didn’t look at all relieved. He said, “Have you told your father?”

“Told me what?” Cork looked from Meloux to Jenny.

She didn’t think this was the time or place, but Meloux had put her on the spot. So Jenny explained to her father about hearing a windigo call her name the night before. She was ready to argue the reality of what she’d heard, and to ask Louise, who’d also heard it, to back her up. And she was ready to tell him she knew that he’d heard a windigo as well.

But no argument was necessary. Her father said, “That makes two of us. The windigo called my name, too.”

“I know.”

Cork glanced at the old Mide. “You told her?”

“On this hunt, there should be no secrets. A windigo understands the dark and uses it. In all this, as much as we can, we should stand in the light.” Meloux squinted, but not because the sun was in his eyes. “One more thing to understand, Corcoran O’Connor. A windigo is already among us.”

Chapter 29

T
he old Mide’s statement caught Jenny off guard. “Here, Henry?” She swung her gaze in a full circle, scrutinizing every person she saw on the boardwalk or lounging on the hotel patio. She thought maybe she’d recognize the man who’d attacked her and Louise the night before. But she saw no one who looked familiar and menacing in that way.

“What the hell do you mean, Henry?” Jenny’s father said. There was a brittle edge to his voice, one Jenny had never heard him use in addressing Meloux.

“How do you fight a windigo?” Meloux asked him.

“We don’t have time for riddles.”

“This is no riddle, Corcoran O’Connor. And you know the answer.”

“Okay, Henry. The only way to fight a windigo is to become one.”

“That is your head talking. Does your heart understand what that means?”

“Look, Henry, we don’t have the luxury of a lot of spiritual consideration. These people already know that we’re here and that we’re looking for them. I don’t want this man who calls himself Windigo—and he is only a man—to run for cover. So forgive me, Henry, when I say let’s just get on with this.”

“On this hunt, never stop listening to your heart, Corcoran O’Connor. That is all I have to say.”

The old man fell silent. Jenny couldn’t tell if it was because he
had, as he said, spoken his piece, or if it was her father’s unusually harsh response that had silenced him.

Daniel checked his watch. “We have better than three hours between now and your appointment with Wesley. What do we do in the meantime?”

Her father took a moment to gather himself. It seemed to Jenny that his exchange with Meloux had unsettled him in some significant way. “Okay, there’s a question we need to consider. If Carrie Verga came off the
Montcalm
, and if she boarded it here in Duluth, how did her body get up to the Apostle Islands? The racecourse would have taken the sailboat past the Apostles
before
arriving in Duluth.”

Jenny said, “Give me your notepad, Dad.”

He took it from his shirt pocket and handed it over. She flipped to the page she’d used to write the information from the
News Tribune
article about the race.

“The sailboats that participated arrived in port on Sunday,” she said. “The awards were given out at a banquet on Tuesday evening. They were in port for at least two nights, probably three. Maybe one of those nights they sailed back out onto Superior.”

“A pleasure sail?” Daniel said.

“Why not? If you race, you must love sailing, right?”

Cork seemed to be rolling something around in his head. He finally said, “They had to dock somewhere here. Let’s find out where.”

• • •

They used Jenny’s smart phone. There were only five marinas in the harbor area. Daniel took two, Jenny and her father the others. Meloux stayed at the hotel with Louise while she rested. He didn’t want her to be alone, and he was, himself, looking tired. Daniel offered to stay, too, concerned about this Windigo, who seemed to know they were on his trail. But the old man was certain his own presence was enough. Meloux had fought and defeated a windigo once. If necessary, he was up to the task again. Jenny handed
Meloux her cell phone, just to be sure, and gave the old man a crash course in how to use it.

Jenny and her father began at the marina on Barker’s Island across the harbor in Superior, Wisconsin. It was one of the largest and had lots of slips for guest dockage. They hit pay dirt right away.

Cork talked to the dockmaster, shot the breeze a bit, flew a story past him about friends in the yacht race, narrowed it down to the
Montcalm,
and the dockmaster spilled what they needed. The sailboat had, indeed, docked there the night after the race. But she’d sailed back out the following day, and didn’t return until the morning of the awards banquet.

“Any idea where she went?” Cork asked. Jenny was amazed at how casual he was able to keep his voice.

“The skipper said he was setting sail for the Apostles. That’s a destination for lots of the boats here. An easy day trip, and a number of good leeward anchorages in the islands if you decide to stay the night. Gorgeous place. You know it?” the dockmaster asked.

“Better and better all the time,” Cork said.

He called Daniel, and they rendezvoused back at the hotel. Louise was awake and rested, and they filled her and Meloux in on what they’d found.

There was talk of lunch. Cork said, “You all go ahead. Jenny and I need to buy a camera, and then we need to keep our appointment with Wesley.”

“What about us?” Daniel asked.

“Enjoy your lunch. And keep your eyes peeled for anyone who looks like a windigo.” He glanced at Henry Meloux, but the old man’s face showed no sign that he’d noticed.

They purchased a Nikon digital SLR at the Best Buy on Miller Hill. Cork had the same camera at home, which he often used in his investigations, so he knew his way around it and wouldn’t look stupid or false handling it. Jenny’s father also bought one other small piece of electronic equipment.

At two o’clock sharp, they were shaking hands with Simon Wesley.

“Sit down, please.” He held out his hand toward two chairs on the opposite side of the desk from his own. They all sat, and he smiled, a genuine gesture.

“I’m pleased and flattered that you’re doing another article so soon,” he said.

“Soon?”

“It hasn’t even been a year since your magazine did the piece on Save the Lake.”

“Oh, that,” Jenny said. “The range of this piece will be much broader. You’re a man of many interests, and you contribute in so many ways to the community here.”

He accepted this with a careless little shrug.

Jenny began with his family, and he was clearly proud on the home front. She moved to his work with the orchestra, and it turned out he was a musician himself, a clarinetist. He also liked the theater and had been asked to be on the board of directors for a community repertory company. He’d declined; lack of time. And then she asked about his love of sailing.

“I’m originally from California,” he said. “Long Beach. I grew up with a tiller in my hand. I could tie a bowline before I could tie my shoes.” He laughed, a very pleasant sound, and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair.

“You love to race, is that true?” she asked.

His brow furrowed a bit. “I’m actually not big on racing. Mostly I just love being on the water. The feel of the wind and the way, on a good day, the boat just seems to fly. Do you sail?”

“No,” she said.

“If you’d like, I’d be happy to take you out.” He glanced at Cork. “You’d get some great photos, Liam.” Jenny had introduced her father as Liam McKenzie. Liam was his middle name. McKenzie was her mother’s maiden name.

“I’m on board,” Cork said and snapped a photo of Wesley.

“You don’t like racing?” Jenny said. “But didn’t you recently participate in the Grand Superior yacht race?”

“That’s a horse of a different color,” he replied. “It’s only once
every two years, and really I do it at the insistence of my boss. He considers it a morale builder. And you know how it is. Your boss says let’s have some fun, you can’t very well say no.”

“You were part of a crew made up of other men who work for Turner, right?”

She thought she saw a little cloud come into his look, a little shadow of concern. But he held his smile when he answered, “Yes.”

“You must work well together.
Montcalm
took second place in its class.”

“Best result we’ve had in that race yet.”

“Your skipper must have been pleased.”

“He was pretty happy.”

“Did you celebrate?”

The smile slowly faded, and it was clear that they’d entered dangerous territory.

“A little, I suppose.”

“There was a banquet of some kind to give out the sailing trophies, wasn’t there?”

He brightened again. “Yes. A couple nights after the race.”

“Did your wife go with you?”

He shook his head. “She and the kids are out in South Dakota visiting her folks.”

“Still?”

“They go every summer for two or three weeks. My in-laws own a ranch near Rapid City. The boys have a great time.”

“They’re not sailors?”

“Oh, they love to sail. But they also love to ride horses. What boy doesn’t?”

They were back on easy ground, and he was relaxed. Jenny thought maybe it was time to surprise him. “You ever sail to the Apostle Islands?”

He hesitated too long. “Sure. It’s a great trip.”

“There and back in a day, yes?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Do you ever stay overnight?”

“I have on occasion.”

“A favorite anchorage?”

His face had gone slack, his blue eyes troubled. He said, “Is this all going to be a part of your article?”

“I ask a lot of questions, and then I sort through for the information that’s relevant. When you finished the yacht race, did you sail back to the Apostles with your boss and the rest of the crew?”

He dropped any pretense of civility. “Who are you?”

Jenny glanced at her father, and he produced two photos. One was of Carrie Verga lying dead across the rocks on Windigo Island. The other was of Mariah Arceneaux. He put them on the desk in front of Wesley.

Jenny gave him time to study them well, then said, “When you and all your friends on the
Montcalm
headed off for a little celebratory sail after the race, you weren’t alone, were you?”

“I want you to leave my office,” he said. “Now.”

“What happened on the
Montcalm
, Simon?” Cork said.

“Get out. Now.”

“We know the
Montcalm
left its slip at Barker’s Island the day after the race and was gone for a night,” Cork said. “A couple of days later the body of a girl washed up on a little pile of rocks in the Apostles, a place called Windigo Island. Maybe you read about it. And yesterday we found a life ring on that island, a life ring from the sailboat you were on.”

Jenny watched the man’s face go ashen. He said feebly, “How do you know there’s any connection?”

Which was not a denial.

Cork said, “This is how it’s going to play, Simon. Either you talk to us, or we go immediately to the police with everything we know. It won’t be hard to connect all the dots, and it will become public and ugly really fast. Do you want that? Or would you like some time first for personal damage control? Either way, it’s all coming out. We’re giving you a chance at the only measure of control you might have in this. The choice is yours.”

Wesley’s breathing had quickened. He took up a pen and tapped his desktop. He glanced out the window of his office. The view was across Lake Superior toward the long sand spit of Park Point, which stretched seven miles toward the east, creating the safe harbor that had made the port city famous.

“Who are you?” He could barely croak out the words. “Really, who are you? Because you’re not from the magazine.”

Cork brought out his license and flashed it and said, “I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired by the family of that girl”—he put his finger on the photograph of Mariah Arceneaux—“to find her. I know she was on the
Montcalm
with you.”

Jenny was surprised at this, then realized he was bluffing.

Wesley hooked his eyes on her with a desperate, pleading look. “I can’t tell you anything. I honestly can’t.”

“But not because you don’t know anything,” she said, as coldly as she could. “You were there. You know what happened to Carrie Verga.”

“Carrie Verga? I don’t know who that is.”

She jammed her finger onto the photograph of the dead girl. “That’s her. Fourteen-year-old Carrie Verga.”

“Fourteen? Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ.” He sat back, as if exhausted. Beaten.

“What happened on the
Montcalm
?” Jenny said.

His eyes had fluttered closed, but now they opened, tired and scared. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. I swear I didn’t.”

“Tell us what happened, Simon.” The tone of her father’s voice had changed, become almost comforting. He sounded like Father Green, their parish priest, when giving permission in the confessional to speak the worst of what was in your heart.

Wesley looked at them a good long while, then said, “It was J.B.’s idea. The whole thing.”

“J.B.? As in John Boone Turner?”

He nodded, slack-faced. “When J.B. tells you you’re going to do something, you don’t say no. He called me up the day after the race and said we were going for a celebratory sail. I love to sail.
Mary and the boys were gone, so I said great. I didn’t know about the girls until I climbed aboard at Barker’s Island. Fourteen,” he said and shook his head. “I would never have guessed.”

“They were already on the boat?” Cork said.

“Yeah. J.B. had arranged it.”

“How?”

“No idea. J.B. knows how to get what he wants.”

“So you all sailed out to the Apostles,” Cork said, a statement not a question.

Wesley nodded again. “We anchored off Oak Island, a place I know, a good, protected spot. We’d been drinking, sailing, enjoying the lake. The girls seemed to be having fun. J.B. had brought along a pretty good larder—caviar, pâté, cheese, champagne, really good stuff. Three of the guys, they disappeared belowdecks with her.” He pointed toward Mariah’s photograph. “J.B., he went below with her.” He indicated Carrie Verga. “It was dark by then. I stayed up top because . . . well, because I didn’t want to be a part of what was going on down below. I’m a family man.” He drilled Jenny with a desperate look. “I
am
a family man.”

“I understand,” Jenny said quietly. “You were offended by J.B.’s actions.”

“You better believe it. But like I said, nobody says no to J.B.”

“What happened then?”

“I stretched out in a deck chair and fell asleep. Honestly, I figured I’d just spend the night like that. But about two in the morning, a storm came up, a big, thundering, howling thing. No rain, just wind and lightning. We were leeward of Oak Island, but the water was still pretty rough. I was checking the anchor line when I thought I heard screaming. I couldn’t be sure because of the wind and thunder, and I was having trouble because we were dragging the anchor, so I was pretty focused there. When I got us secured again, I went back to my deck chair. J.B. was standing at the railing looking into the dark. I asked him if everything was okay. He said, ‘She’s gone.’ I asked him who was gone. ‘Misty,’ he said,” at which point Wesley nodded toward the photograph
of Carrie Verga. “That was what she called herself. I panicked, yelled at him, asked him if she’d gone overboard. He said, and I apologize for the language, ‘The fucking little bitch jumped ship.’”