William Krueger - Thunder Bay

“Guard dogs,” I said with a shrug. “For a man so crazy about his privacy, it makes sense.”

Pollard said, “I’ve never heard them except when I can tell from a docked boat that someone is visiting the island.”

“What’s so strange about that?” Schanno asked.

“Dogs are dogs. They like to bark, guests or no. Nature of the beast. They also like to run. I’ve sailed around this island dozens of times, and I’ve never seen the dogs being exercised. So far as I know, nobody has.”

“You’re saying what? That they’re virtual guard dogs?”

“Cheap security.”

“I ran into the expensive kind,” I told her. “Guys with guns.”

“How many?”

“There was Morrissey.” I thought about it. “Then there was the guy who piloted the launch and the security guy at the dock.”

“Benning and Dougherty,” she said.

“You know them?”

“Everybody at the marina knows them. They bring the launch in two, three times a week. They go to dinner, take in a movie, buy groceries, go back to the island. Nice enough couple.”

“Couple?”

“That’s the speculation among the sailors at the marina.”

“I didn’t pick up on that.”

“Why would you? You weren’t looking for it. Bob Calhoun, guy who docks at the slip two down from mine, is gay. He claims his ’gaydar’ tells him it’s true. Did you see anybody else out there?”

“No.”

“Nor have I. Benning, Dougherty, once in a while this guy you say was Morrissey, that’s it.”

“No house staff, no groundskeepers?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“But you’ve seen Wellington, right?” Schanno said.

“Every so often around twilight, I catch a glimpse of him walking alone along the shoreline. Never in full daylight. He’s like a ghost, all in white.”

“He seems to prefer the dark,” I said.

“Like a bat or a vampire,” Pollard said. Then she glanced at Henry and said no more.

Although the lake hadn’t settled down any, I could tell from the distance of the thunder that the electrical part of the storm had moved east. We still had time to kill until it was dark enough to approach the island, and Trinky Pollard hauled out three more beers.

Schanno said, “So, what do you do besides sail?”

“I read a lot. And drink more beer than is probably good for me.”

“No men in your life?”

She tipped her can to her lips and drank before she answered. “I was married for a dozen years. My husband finally left me because he claimed my job was more important to me than he was. He was right. In my experience, when men start being serious in a relationship, that translates into something like ownership. My boat and my books are pretty good company. When I want anything more, I pop into the Waterfront at the marina. I know all the regulars there.”

Schanno turned his beer can in his hands and seemed to study the label. “It takes a special person to understand the demands the job makes on a cop.”

“Your wife, she understood?”

“Not always.”

“But she didn’t leave you.”

“She did eventually. Not her choice.”

“Sounds like you were a lucky man.”

“Blessed is what I was.”

She lifted her beer in a toast. “To blessings.”

Schanno tapped her beer can with his own, and they drank.

Shortly before eight P.M., Pollard declared, “Time to get ready.”

The heavy rain persisted and, along with it, a stiff wind that kept the lake churning. The leading edge of the storm had passed long ago, but what followed proved not much better. We stood up and struggled to steady ourselves.

Schanno fell into Pollard. Though she was much smaller, she caught him.

“I thought you said the wind was going to die down,” he complained.

“Quoting the radio,” she replied. “Obviously they were wrong. You want to cancel the landing party?”

Schanno looked at me.

“We’re going,” I said.

Pollard lifted one of the seats and, from the storage compartment beneath, hauled out a large canvas duffle bag with STEARNS printed on the side.

“What’s that?” Schanno said.

“An inflatable dinghy.”

“I thought you said you were going to take the sailboat in.”

“If the wind and the lake calmed. They haven’t. I don’t want to take a chance on running aground. The dinghy will be safer.”

“In these waves?” Schanno said.

“We’re less than a hundred yards from shore. Once you’re in the shelter of the inlet, it should be easy.”

“Once we’re in the inlet. What happened to you being part of this?”

“The dinghy’s designed for two adults, or six hundred and fifty pounds. I think you three can probably fit. Four would be impossible. Besides, in this weather, I need to stay with the boat.”

She waited, as if anticipating further argument from Schanno.

“You don’t have to come, Wally,” I said. “I’ll take Meloux to the island.”

“I’m coming.”

“Cork, there’s an electric air pump in that compartment over there,” Trinky said. “Would you bring it topside?”

On deck the wind pushed the rain into our faces. I could see the island, charcoal colored in the false twilight of the storm. The shoreline was a rage of foaming waves, but the opening to the inlet was clear and the water beyond looked calm. Pollard unzipped the canvas bag and hauled out the rolled dinghy. She spread it on the deck and attached the hose from the electric air pump to one of the valves. As soon as she started the pump, the flat PVC material began to quiver like an animal coming to life. While Schanno and Pollard inflated the dinghy, I went belowdeck and retrieved the knapsack I’d filled with items from my Bronco before leaving the marina-a small pry bar, glass cutter, screwdriver, hammer, sheathed hunting knife, a couple of flashlights, and binoculars. I’d thought about bringing one of the rifles, but decided against it. I didn’t want things to get out of hand that way. I slipped the hunting knife onto my belt and slung the pack on my back. By the time I got up on deck, the dinghy was ready to go. We eased it over the side, where the waves did their best to snatch it from us. We tossed in the oars, then Pollard and I held to ropes tied to the inflatable’s bow and stern while Schanno climbed in. He grasped the railing and held on to the sailboat as we helped Meloux into the dinghy. Finally, I slid over the side and settled in the bow. Pollard released her rope, and we shoved into a wind that was doing its best to drive us into the open lake. Schanno and I got the oars into the locks and began to row for all we were worth toward Manitou Island.

I played football in high school. I thought I knew what a hundred yards was. That night a hundred yards seemed to stretch into forever. We pulled hard against waves that came at us foaming like mad dogs. In the wind, our bodies acted as sails, and the dinghy resisted fiercely as we fought to go forward. For a long time, we seemed suspended between the sailboat and the shore while the water of Lake Superior broke over the bow, soaking us with its bitter cold. I was tiring, and I figured Schanno, who had a dozen years on me, had to be exhausted. But the big man dug his oars into the lake and put his back into the effort, and together we inched the small boat toward Manitou.

We finally made the inlet. As soon as we rounded the tip of the peninsula, we escaped the waves and the worst of the wind. We found ourselves in a narrow passage twenty yards wide and four times as long. The shoreline was all rock, but as I looked over my shoulder I could see dark pilings and a platform at the far end of the inlet.

“There’s a dock,” I said.