Steve Hamilton - Misery Bay

“I can’t do that, Alex.”

I let a few seconds pass. I drove and I listened to the distant hum of static on the line.

“Hey,” I said, “how come you didn’t correct me this time?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I called you Janet and you let it slide.”

“Alex, I’m serious. You need to stop right now.”

“I’ll see you in Houghton,” I said. “Drive carefully.” I ended the call.

My signal was starting to fade as I crossed the bridge. Before it disappeared completely, I went to my saved numbers and looked up Leon’s cell phone. It rang twice and then he picked up.

“Leon,” I said. “Are you at work?”

“No, I’m home. I actually have a night off for once.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I just need you to look up an address for me if you can.”

“Sure thing, just tell me what I’m looking for.”

“The name is Bobby Bergman and the address is Houghton. The problem is, this address might be a little old. He hasn’t lived there since last year.”

I heard the clicking of keys, and then in the background I heard Eleanor’s voice, asking Leon who was on the phone. I wasn’t sure what the exact trouble threshold would be in that household, if just talking to me on the phone would get things going again.

“Eleanor says hello,” Leon said, still working away at his keyboard. “She also says you need to stop by and have dinner some time.”

“So she can kill me, right? Look, I don’t want to get you in hot water again. I wouldn’t be calling if this wasn’t important.”

“It’s okay. It’s just a phone call, and besides, we came to an agreement. She knows I can’t help myself, so whenever you drag me into this stuff, it’s all your fault, not mine. I’m just a helpless pawn in your wicked game.”

“I really owe you, Leon. Yet again.”

“Not a problem. As a matter of fact, I’m seeing three different addresses here.”

“Three? What are you talking about?”

“I’m going back in time, Alex. On the Internet. I can go back about ten years and see everywhere he lived.”

“You can really do that?”

“You really need to get a computer. Can we set you up with one, please?”

“Then I’d have no excuse to call you,” I said. “But seriously, can you tell me those addresses? And while you’re at it, maybe help me find where they are?”

I pulled over for a minute and wrote everything down. When he was done, I thanked him, told him to kiss Eleanor for me, then thanked him again. I don’t know how much of it he heard, because that’s about when the signal cut out for good. I put the phone down and got back on the road, taking that first exit past the bridge, to that thin lonely U.S. Highway 2 that runs along the shores of Lake Michigan, straight west into the setting sun, toward Houghton.

It felt strange to be back in Copper Country, where everything had begun. Winter wasn’t gone for good quite yet, but now it seemed to be fighting a losing battle. Where the snow had melted away there was dead ground and what deciduous trees there were looked like they’d never carry leaves again. I knew it would all come and it would come quickly, but tonight as my headlights swept across the empty road, the springtime felt like a fairy tale.

It was just after ten o’clock at night when I finally hit Houghton. There were lights now, and people driving around in their cars, but that empty feeling of foreboding I had brought with me didn’t go away. Maybe I was just too tired now, but I’d spent so many hours on the road and I knew there was a good chance I’d find something horrible here, just as Sean’s girlfriend had predicted.

As I went down the main street in Houghton, past the college buildings and the fraternities and everything else, I saw a lot more kids outside than I would have expected. They were walking up and down the sidewalks, some of them carrying beer bottles and most of them underdressed for the weather. I guess if you go to school in Houghton, an April night with the temperature just above freezing must feel like Bermuda.

I found the first address Leon had given me on the east side of town, not far from the college. This was the most recent address, I thought. This is where the trail will be warmest. I parked the truck on the street and sat there for a moment, still feeling the road and hearing the hum of the engine after so many hours of driving.

It was an old house, subdivided into several small apartments. I rang the doorbell. A young woman answered and told me that nobody named Bobby Bergman lived there anymore. It was all women now, as a matter of fact, and no, she had no idea where Bergman may have moved to. They pick up these rentals on a yearly basis, after all, and whoever lived there in previous years was nothing more than a foreign name to them. I thanked her and left.

The next address was right on campus. It was one of the main dormitories. I knew that would be even more of a dead end than the apartment.

The last address was over on the west side of town, away from the college. I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to find out there, but what the hell. So I drove all the way through town, past the bridge, and made my way through the side streets until I found Waterworks Drive. I started tracking the house numbers. They were going up, so I was heading in the right direction. An even number, I thought, so definitely on this side of the street. Getting closer now. One more house.

Boom, here it is.

Nothing.

There was no house there at all, just an empty lot with a low mound of dirt where the house should have been. I rechecked the addresses on either side of the lot. This was it.

I parked the truck, got out, and then stood there looking at the empty lot.

This is the neighborhood, I thought, looking up and down the street. That first scene in the film, it was taken right here. Meaning that this empty lot was-

I sensed a movement to my right. I looked over at the house next door, saw a woman’s face peering out at me from between the front window curtains.

Somebody’s definitely awake next door, I thought, and she likes to know what’s going on in her neighborhood. Maybe she likes to talk about it, too.

I went up her walkway and knocked on her front door. After a few seconds, I heard the deadbolt sliding and then the door opened up just a crack, with the little security chain rattling on its latch, making sure the door wouldn’t open any farther. The same woman I had seen in the window was now looking at me. She was in her late sixties maybe, and she was wearing a pink robe and pink slippers. I could see a cat rubbing itself against the backs of her legs.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. Can I just ask you a couple of questions?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator, ma’am.” At that moment, I wished I had one of those stupid cards Leon had made for us, once upon a time. “Can I come inside for a moment?”

“I’d rather talk to you from here, if you don’t mind.”

“Fair enough.” I wasn’t about to point out to her that her little chain wouldn’t have stopped any able-bodied person, if that person really wanted to come inside her house. “Can you tell me, did the house next door burn down?”

“It sure did.”

“About four years ago, right?”

“Yep. Burned right to the ground. They had to come out with a bulldozer and clean it all out. Then they filled the foundation with dirt. It was two weeks of unholy racket, I’ll tell you that much.”

“The family who lived there,” I said. “Those were the Bergmans, right?”

“The Bergmans, yes. The father’s the one who died in the fire.”

“Did you know them well?”