Rachelle McCalla - Survival Instinct

Scott checked his watch. It was just after ten o’clock. There had been a time during his college days when staying out much later on a Saturday wouldn’t have fazed him. Now he felt his exhaustion to his bones, as well as a nagging headache from the wind. But much as his body wanted to turn in for the night, in his heart he knew he needed to find Mitch and sort things out. It bothered him that Mitch hadn’t stuck around to help find his mother. But more than that, Scott felt troubled by the nagging possibility that Mitch might have engineered their abandonment as part of an elaborate scheme to cover up their murder so he could inherit the family land. Though it seemed like a stretch, he had to consider the possibility.

He turned to Abby, but noticed she was already nodding off. She needed her sleep. He kept silent until they landed at the Coast Guard station in Bayfield, then nudged her awake and draped a supportive arm around her shoulders as they made their way to their cars.

It was only a couple of blocks from the Coast Guard landing pad to the parking lot nearest the pier. Streetlights illuminated an upscale neighborhood of lakeside condominiums and tidy landscaping. Though the wind blew hard and the rain continued to spit, the weather was much tamer on the mainland, insulated by the buffer of the islands, than it had been twenty miles out to sea on Devil’s Island.

They reached her car first. “So, what’s your plan?” she asked as she unlocked her door.

“I thought I might head down to the Seagull Bay and see what Mitch is up to.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d offer.”

“Hop in. I’ll drive.”

There was no sign of an Escalade in the motel parking lot. “Stop at the office,” Scott suggested. “It’s possible he’s checked out.” He didn’t want to think what that would mean. If Mitch left town while his mother was still missing, Scott would no longer be able to disregard him as a suspect.

Abby pulled her car to a stop and accompanied Scott into the small office where an older couple sat in easy chairs in front of a small television. The woman worked on a needlework project on her lap. They both looked up when Scott and Abby entered.

“You folks need a room?” the man asked.

“Actually, I’m looking for my stepdad, Mitchell Adams. He and my mother were staying at your motel and I’d like to get in touch with him, but I don’t see their vehicle.”

“To my knowledge they haven’t checked out.” The man looked to his wife.

The older woman spoke up. “No, but I think I saw him drive past ten minutes ago or so. Don’t they drive one of those big fancy SUVs?”

“Yes,” Scott confirmed.

“That’s right,” the woman affirmed, turning her attention back to her needlework. “Saw him drive by not ten minutes ago. Don’t know which way he headed, but he’s paid up for the night and still has his key, so I expect he’ll be back. Care to leave a message?”

“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” Scott waved and followed Abby back into the night. “Well,” he began once they were in her car, “you’re the local expert. Mitch comes back from the island, he’s hungry, where would he go? What’s open at this hour?”

“Not much.” Abby drove back to the parking lot where they’d left his car. “A couple of restaurants maybe, but now that the tourist season is over, it gets to be slim pickings, even on the weekends. Bayfield only has about six hundred residents in the off-season. He might have headed down the road to Washburn. It’s a bigger town-there’d be more open at this hour. Want to split up and look for him?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scott agreed. “Since you know the town, you can check out the local hangouts. I’ll head down the highway and see if I can catch up to him. Let’s make sure we have each other’s phone numbers so we can stay in touch.” He pointed to his car in the parking lot, and Abby came to a stop in the empty parking space beside it.

They put each other’s cell numbers on speed dial, and then Scott reached for her hand. “Before we go, let’s pray. I think we could use some guidance.”

Abby kept her eyes closed tight while Scott prayed. She felt convinced the next step was to find Mitch. Whether he was somehow behind Marilyn’s disappearance or simply a witness to it, he’d have information that could help them. She silently gave her concerns to God while Scott spoke reassuring words.

Scott closed the prayer with an emphatic amen and headed to his car. “Call me if you learn anything,” he insisted.

“You, too,” she called back, then pulled quickly away. There weren’t many places Mitch was likely to be, but it would take a while to check them all. She didn’t want to waste any more time.

Abby turned out of the parking lot onto Rittenhouse Avenue. One block later, she spotted a huge red SUV in the parking lot of Greunke’s, the tavern that had been a landmark in Bayfield for longer than the port had been a town. Thanking God for his provision, Abby pulled into the parking lot and left her car in the shadow of the Escalade.

For a fleeting moment she thought about calling Scott. But no, she’d already seen how poorly Mitch and Scott communicated with one another. Scott would raise Mitch’s hackles before they’d have a chance to learn anything. She hoped to get on his good side. If that failed to yield any information, she could always call Scott later.

Abby entered the restaurant quietly. Given the late hour and the off-season, the usually packed restaurant appeared to be empty. Abby crept in as stealthily as she dared, approaching the first empty table before the long lunch counter that ran the length of the main room. Off to her right, smaller dining rooms branched off, their doorways just beyond her. She recognized the waitress, a woman named Deb, who was stacking malt glasses just behind the lunch counter. When Deb looked up from her glasses, Abby made eye contact with her and motioned for the waitress to join her.

Deb nonchalantly left her malt glasses and met Abby by the entryway. Abby held one finger to her lips as the woman approached. “I’m looking for the man whose SUV is parked out front,” Abby whispered once the waitress was close enough to hear. “But I don’t want him to see me.”

Deb smiled and blew a bubble with her gum. When it popped, she said quietly, “He’s in the far dining room, but he’s facing this way. If you go in there, he’ll see you.”

“Mind if I sit in that booth?” Abby pointed to the spot just before the wide doorway of the far dining room.

“No problem. You want to order something?”

After a day of fasting on Devil’s Island, Abby’s stomach grumbled at the thought of food, but since she didn’t know what her plans were, she reluctantly shook her head. “I’ll still leave you a tip, though.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Deb replied, then went back to the malt glasses.

With a deep breath and another internal prayer for guidance, Abby settled into the booth and considered how best to approach Mitch. Shifting her weight as she sat on the bench, Abby felt a prickle from the earrings in her back pocket. Perhaps that would be her excuse for talking to him-she could approach him on the pretext of returning Marilyn’s earrings. From there, perhaps they could strike up a conversation. She saw Deb disappear into the kitchen.

Now was her chance to speak to him privately. Abby stood, ready to exit her booth and approach Mitch, when she heard him speak.

“Yeah, it’s Mitch. Where are you guys?”

There was a pause, and Abby’s heart began to beat rapidly. Was he on the phone talking to Scott?

“Yeah, well, wait for my signal and take her back out to the island. I cut the brake line on the kid’s car. The slick roads and the bluffs should take care of the rest. No!”