William Krueger - Thunder Bay

“I’m not a journalist. I’m a private investigator.” I hauled out my wallet and handed him a business card. “I’ve been retained by the man who gave me that watch to deliver it and its history personally to Henry Wellington. This is important. My client is dying.”

“The man’s name?”

“That’s for the ears of Henry Wellington.” It was my turn to lean forward, not an easy thing in the curved chair. “Look, for a lot of years I was the sheriff of Tamarack County, down in Minnesota. If you need a character reference, I’d urge you to call the sheriff’s office. I’m not trying to scam you. It’s simply an unusual and pressing situation. Keep the watch for the time being. All I’m asking is fifteen minutes of your brother’s time. I guarantee that what I have to tell him, he’ll want to hear. It’s important to him. And urgent as well.”

A man in his position, I figured, had to be able to size up circumstances-and people-quickly. Wellington considered for all of ten seconds, staring at the watch in his hand.

“I can’t guarantee anything, Mr. O’Connor. Henry has the final say as to whether he sees you or not. And I can tell you right now, he sees almost no one these days.”

“I can’t ask any more than that. Thank you.”

“How can you be reached?”

“My cell phone. The number’s on my card.”

He stood up and offered his hand in parting. A gracious gesture, I thought. “Again,” he cautioned, “I make no promises.”

“I understand. And the watch?”

“It will be returned to you before you see my brother.”

I was hoping he’d add something like “Scout’s honor,” but all he gave me was a steady stare as I walked to the door and left.

It was two thirty in the afternoon. I needed lunch. I went back to the marina, to the little restaurant/bar in the remodeled depot. I got a table on the deck overlooking the docks, ordered a Reuben and a beer, and stared out at the sailboats cutting across the bay. The wind off the lake was cool and pleasant.

I got the Moosehead first, and while I drank it, I thought about what I’d accomplished so far. In two days, I’d identified the man I suspected was Meloux’s son, tracked him down, and had, I believed, a good shot at an interview. It seemed impressive. While I was more than willing to give myself credit for brilliant detecting, it felt too easy. Something was wrong with the picture, but I couldn’t exactly say what.

The one solid fact was that the woman Meloux had called Maria Lima-not a common name in Canada, I was pretty sure-had become the first wife of Leonard Wellington. About her I felt certain. That she had a son named Henry who was born in the year and month when, according to Meloux, his own son would have been born had the distant possibility of coincidence. That I would be allowed to see this man who’d become Canada’s most notorious recluse seemed the biggest stretch.

Yet that was exactly what Meloux had predicted. The watch would be my passport.

I ate the Reuben, a pretty good one, and was working on my second beer when my cell phone rang. No information on caller ID.

“O’Connor here.”

“This is Henry Wellington.”

“Mr. Wellington-” I began.

“Be at the Thunder Bay Marina at three thirty, the end of dock number one. You’ll be met by a man named Edward Morrissey, my personal assistant. He’ll bring you to Manitou Island.”

“Thank you.”

“Mr. O’Connor, should you be tempted to speak to the media before or after your visit, rest assured I’ll see that you wish you hadn’t.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

“What about the watch?”

“It will be in Mr. Morrissey’s possession.”

Without so much as a good-bye, he was gone.

I strolled down to the dock a few minutes early. Edward Morrissey was already there.

He wasn’t an imposing man at first glance. Not tall-just under six feet. Dark curly hair. I put him in his mid-thirties. When I got closer, I saw that he was hard all over, well muscled, with a broad chest, narrow waist, thick arms, and a neck like a section of concrete pillar. He wore sunglasses and didn’t remove them. I saw myself, small, approaching in their reflection.

“You O’Connor?”

He’d been leaning against the railing of the dock, but came off when I neared him. He wore jeans, tight over buffed-up thighs, white sneakers, a black windbreaker.

“That’s me.”

“Morrissey,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand. “Supposed to take you to the island.”

“I’m ready.”

He stepped close to me. “Lift your arms.”

“What?”

“I need to pat you down.”

“I’m not carrying.”

“I need to be sure. Also, I’ll be checking for any camera you might have hidden.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You want to see Mr. Wellington?”

I lifted my arms. While Morrissey went over me with his big hands, I noticed the woman on her sailboat a few slips down who’d talked with me that morning. She was sitting on a canvas deck chair, drinking from a beer bottle, watching the proceedings with amusement. She lifted her beer in a toast to me.

“All right,” Morrissey said when he was satisfied I was clean. “Let’s go.”

“You’re supposed to give me something.”

Morrissey reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and brought out the little box that contained the watch. “This?”

“Yes.”

I held out my hand, but Morrissey slipped the box back into his pocket.

“Mr. Wellington instructed me to deliver it directly to him,” Morrissey said.

“The other Mr. Wellington promised me-”

“I don’t work for the other Mr. Wellington.” He turned and walked toward the end of the pier, where a launch was waiting with a pilot at the wheel.

Morrissey was dead silent most of the way out. He sat directly opposite me on the small launch, his arms crossed, the wind batting his curly hair and pulling at the collar of his windbreaker. His eyes behind the impenetrable dark of his shades might have been closed and he might have been sleeping, but I guessed not. I figured he was taking my measure. My assessment of Edward Morrissey was that he was less a personal assistant than a bodyguard, and the bulge under his black windbreaker wasn’t a whisk broom to dust lint from his employer’s black suit.

We crossed the bay at a good clip. As we drew nearer Sleeping Giant, an island emerged, taking shape against the rugged backdrop of the peninsula. It lay, I guessed, a quarter mile off the mainland. It was relatively level and heavily covered with boreal forest, tall pines mostly. Finally I made out the white outline of a dock jutting into the lake. A few minutes later, the pilot at the wheel cut the engine and began to maneuver us in. We moved at a crawl, and when I looked over the gunwale of the launch, I understood why. Beneath the clear water of Lake Superior, I could see a series of wicked shoals through which the pilot was carefully navigating.

From a kiosk at the far end of the dock, a man emerged and walked out to meet us. He wore white shorts, a white shirt, boat shoes. As we came nearer, I saw that he also wore a gun belt with a filled holster.

The launch nosed up to the dock. Morrissey stood up and tossed a line to the man.

When we were tied off, Morrissey said, “After you, O’Connor.” I disembarked. Morrissey was right behind me.

The man on the dock returned to the kiosk. We met him there. He wrote something on a sheet attached to a clipboard, then said to me, “Lift your arms, please.”

“Another pat down? I’ve already been through that routine with Morrissey here. Hey, I like a good tickle as well as the next guy, but come on.”