William Krueger - Thunder Bay

Schanno and I pulled the weeds, then got on our knees and began to dig with our hands. Three or four inches down, we hit solid wood. We scraped the dirt away, revealing rotted floorboards. Because I knew his story, I knew what Meloux expected to find, and we kept scraping at the dirt until we uncovered the thing.

“Here it is, Henry,” I said. I took the knife from my day pack and ran the blade along the slits that outlined the trapdoor. I poked until I located the hole where a strand of rope had once served as a handle, and I cleaned it out. I glanced up at Meloux.

“Open it,” he said.

I jabbed my index finger into the hole and lifted. The door resisted at first, then gave. The cool, earthy smell of trapped air escaped. The light in the clearing was waning, and the pit below the trapdoor was too dark to see into clearly.

“In the pack,” I said to Schanno. “My flashlight.”

He dug it out and handed it over. I flicked it on and shot the beam through the opening of the trapdoor. The pit appeared to be a cube three feet wide and deep. It was filled with deer-hide bags gone brittle with time, each as large as a softball. A quick count gave me a dozen.

I stood back. “Care to take a look, Mr. Wellington?”

I held the flashlight while he knelt and reached into the pit. The bag he grasped fell apart as he lifted it and dull yellow sand spilled out.

“I’ve never seen gold dust,” I said, “but I imagine it looks pretty much like that, doesn’t it?”

Wellington stood up. “Put the trapdoor back.” He studied the sky. “We should start home. It’ll be dark soon.”

He didn’t look at Meloux, just turned and headed toward the trail along the stream.

I lowered the door back into place. Quiet as a congregation leaving a church, we abandoned the clearing.

We moved more slowly on the return and didn’t make it back to the log home before nightfall. Wellington pulled a powerful light out of his pack and led the way. I brought up the rear with mine. Wellington had no trouble following the trail, faint as it was, and I figured this wasn’t the first time he’d been to the burned ruins in the little clearing. We stopped often for Meloux to rest. He’d proved his point, and now he was feeling the physical cost of the journey. I shared the bottles of water in my pack. Wellington had brought his own. He also had trail mix, which he offered around. We didn’t speak except for the necessity of safety: “Careful of that log,” or “Watch your step.” When I finally saw the lights of Wellington’s place ahead of us, I felt a deep relief.

We crossed the yard, mounted the front porch, and went inside. I smelled food cooking and realized I was starved.

Wellington said, “It’s too late for you to return tonight. You’re welcome to stay here. There are plenty of rooms upstairs. I asked Benning to prepare dinner for us. As soon as you’re settled, we can eat.”

We brought our bags in from the Bronco, and Wellington himself showed us to our rooms.

“I’m going to wash up, and I’ll see you downstairs in the dining room in a few minutes,” he said. He went to his own room, which was at the far end of the hallway.

I shed my shirt. As I stood at the sink in my bathroom, washing off the dirt and sweat and DEET, Schanno knocked and came in. He stood in the bathroom doorway, trying to scrape the dirt from under his fingernails while I finished cleaning up.

“This guy Wellington is one cold fish,” he said. “Meloux delivers all the evidence to back up his claims, and Wellington doesn’t say a word to him. He might not be the kook Ellsworth played, but he’s hard to figure.”

“I imagine it’s a lot to absorb.”

“Sure, but most people are going to react somehow. Him, it’s like he’d just watched you peel an orange.”

“Henry Wellington’s not much like other people.”

“He was my son, I’d give him a kick in the ass.”

I grabbed a towel from the rack and began to dry myself. “I have it on good authority, Wally, that you never raised a hand-or foot-to your kids.”

“I’ll take my Python back. There’s still a lot we don’t know, like why Morrissey went after Henry in the first place.”

I hung the towel, pushed past Schanno, and grabbed the clean shirt I’d laid out on the bed. “Wellington’s hard to read, I admit, but I didn’t get a dangerous feel from him.”

“All the same, I’m going to sleep with the Python under my pillow tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” I took the weapon from the pack and handed it over.

“How much you figure there is in gold up there?” he said.

I buttoned my shirt. “Enough to set you and me and Meloux for a lifetime. Drop in the bucket to Wellington.”

We left my room, and I knocked on Meloux’s door but got no answer.

“Maybe he’s already downstairs,” Schanno suggested.

I poked my head in the room. The old Mide lay on his bed, fully clothed, not dead-I could tell from the slow rise and fall of his chest and his soft snoring-but dead tired and dead to the world. I closed the door softly.

We found Wellington in the dining room, pouring mineral water into the glasses on the table. He’d changed back into his loose-fitting white clothing and sandals. A meat loaf sat on a platter in the middle of the table. An hour earlier, it had probably been perfect. Now it looked overcooked and dry. There was a big bowl of fresh green beans mixed with crisp bacon bits, roasted red potatoes, a tossed salad, and a good-looking dark bread.

“I don’t have beer,” Wellington said. “I can offer you wine, however. I still keep some good vintages on hand for when my family visits.”

Schanno and I both settled for the water.

“And Mr. Meloux?” Wellington asked.

“He’s sleeping,” I said. “It’s been a long, hard day.”

We sat down to the meal. Once you got past the crust from the additional cooking time, the meat loaf was delicious, quite savory, as were the beans and the roasted potatoes. The salad contained pears and had a refreshing lime dressing. The bread was homemade, substantial and tasty.

“Benning usually does your cooking?” I asked.

“I live here alone most of the time, so generally I do my own.”

I figured that was enough small talk. “You employed Edward Morrissey, Mr. Wellington, and Morrissey tried to murder Henry Meloux.”

Wellington carefully dabbed his lips with his napkin. “So I understand.”

“Why?”

“I really have no idea. Ed Morrissey worked for me on occasion, but he was what you might call a freelance security consultant. When Rupert telephoned and told me about the watch and your request for an interview, I contacted Morrissey to arrange for him to oversee your visit to Manitou Island. I wanted to know what you were up to, and I didn’t want Ellsworth handling you alone. After your visit, Morrissey phoned in his report. He indicated you were simply working a con, trying to squeeze some money out of me. He told me he’d taken care of the situation discreetly, as he had on other occasions in the past. I was surprised when Rupert called to tell me the police were investigating the incident in Minnesota.”

“Surprised but not troubled?”

“I didn’t know Henry Meloux or his story.”

“Morrissey never reported that part to you?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

“Of course it does, now.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell you everything?”

“That’s a question for which I have no answer.”

“What about Rupert?”

He shook his head. “Rupert’s only part has been to pass along requests that seem to have some merit. Those have been blessedly few. He made it clear from the beginning that he wanted no part in my charade, and he’s done his best to keep Northern Mining distanced.”