William Krueger - Northwest Angle

“I can drive him, Lynn,” one of the men offered. “Got my truck outside.”

Mal waved off the offer. “Ice and ibuprofen’ll be fine. We have some folks still out there on the lake who need finding.”

“Those two Seth called about?” Belgea asked.

“Yes,” Stephen replied. “My dad and my sister.”

Bascombe said, “I explained to them we’d best wait until morning.”

Belgea nodded. “Seth’s right. Morning’s safest and will come soon enough. We got lots of folks still unaccounted for. Don’t need to add any more to that number by sending boats out in the dark. Where you folks staying?”

“Our accommodations are somewhere out there,” Mal said, waving toward the lake. “We docked our houseboat.”

“Look, folks,” Bascombe said, his eyes drifting over Mal and Stephen and Anne, and finally Rose. “I have a little resort on Oak Island. Got some empty cabins. Be glad to put you up while we look for your family.”

“That’s awfully nice of you, Mr. Bascombe,” Rose said.

“It’s Seth. And anybody here’d do the same. On the Angle, folks help each other out. There’s a lot of territory between us and the rest of the world.”

Belgea, who looked as tired as everyone else, smiled wanly and said, “Sometimes up here, I get the feeling there is no ‘rest of the world.’ ”

SIXTEEN

Bascombe said, “You folks hungry?”

They’d landed at an unlit dock on the far side of Oak Island, a fifteen-minute boat ride from the mainland. Bascombe had shown them to their cabins, small and rustic and with only the very basic amenities inside: two bunks in each, a table with a single lamp, a sink with a mirror, and a small bathroom/shower. No bedding on the bunks, no towels hanging on the bathroom racks. Bascombe had apologized for the austerity.

“I don’t rent them out anymore, and when I did, it was to fishermen who didn’t particularly care about their comfort. They came to catch walleye. I’ve got bedding and towels and such at the lodge, if you want to come up and snag them.”

Rose and Mal had taken one cabin, Stephen and Aaron another, and Anne had been given a cabin to herself. They were all ready to get their sheets and blankets and turn in, but Bascombe’s question about food seemed to stir the realization in them all that they hadn’t eaten since lunch.

Stephen leaped at the offer. “You bet,” he said.

“We don’t want to put you out any more than we already have,” Rose told their host.

They stood in front of the open door to the cabin Rose and Mal had been given, in a drizzle of light that came from the table lamp inside. Bascombe held a big flashlight, which he swung toward the largest of the buildings in the resort.

“Up here, it’s a long trip to the grocery store, so I keep the lodge pretty well stocked. And the kitchen’s in good shape. I’m not much of a cook, but I can rustle you up something.”

“Aunt Rose is the best cook in Minnesota,” Stephen offered eagerly.

“That so?” A broad smile spread across Bascombe’s long, broad face. “You want to give me a hand, Rose or, hell, give me instructions, I’d be fine with that.”

“No, that’s quite all right—” Rose began.

Mal cut her off. “Ah, go on. Give him a hand, sweetheart. He’s pooped, too. And your cooking might be a small down payment for his hospitality.”

“These days, I only cook for myself,” Bascombe said. “Mostly I’m a connoisseur of the lumpy, the soggy, and the burned. Be nice to eat a decent meal for a change.”

“All right, Seth. If you’re sure.”

“If I didn’t want your help, Rose, I’d say so. On the Angle, we all pretty much speak our minds. Follow me.”

The lodge turned out to be an amiable place, far less austere than the cabins. It had a small dining area with four tables and chairs. The knotty pine walls were hung with maps of the Lake of the Woods and photographs of fishermen holding up prize catches, and a couple of stuffed muskies, huge and with vicious-looking teeth, mounted on polished plaques. There was a long glass counter with a display, dusty now, of lures and fishing knives and bug repellent and pamphlets about U.S. and Canadian regulations. Set into one of the walls was an open fireplace with a fieldstone hearth, and everything in the lodge had the distant, pleasant scent of woodsmoke. Mal, who was hobbling around on a pair of wooden crutches that Lynn Belgea had scrounged from somewhere back at Young’s Bay Landing, sat at a table, and the others, except Rose and Bascombe, joined him. Rose followed the big man into the kitchen and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was quite modern, with a large refrigerator and commercial stove, both stainless steel. There was a pantry, modestly stocked at the moment, but it could have held supplies for an army. The stainless-steel sinks were broad and deep.

“Back in the days when this place was still a moneymaking operation, I had me a fine cook,” Bascombe said. His big shoulders slumped a little, and there was a mist of sadness over his words. “Renee McGuire. That woman could do things with walleye should’ve been illegal.”

“What happened to Renee McGuire?” Rose asked, because she had a strong sense there was a good deal to the story.

“In the end, I guess, both me and this place proved to be disappointments to her. She found herself better prospects down in Warroad.”

Rose looked at the man, who was bearded, bear-big, wild-haired, and from the musky smell coming off him, a good day or two overdue for a shower, and she understood what a challenge he would present to any woman.

Bascombe waved off his dour mood. “But that’s water under the bridge. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see what I can find.”

Rose made frittatas with diced ham and onion and melted cheese. She fried potatoes as an accompaniment, and Bascombe toasted bread. When they brought everything to the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice, the eyes of the others grew big with anticipation.

“Thanks, Aunt Rose,” Anne said.

Aaron, who’d been mostly quiet since their meeting at Young’s Bay Landing, said graciously, “Thank you, Rose. This looks incredible.”

“This barely scratches the surface of what our Rose can do.” Mal gave her an appreciative wink.

They ate without much talk at first, but as their appetites were satisfied, they turned eventually to a discussion of the situation on the lake.

Bascombe said, “Heard someone at the landing say that the storm ripped through Kenora, then turned east and was looking to tear a path all the way to Quebec.”

“A derecho,” Aaron said.

“A what?” Bascombe gave him a look of incomprehension.

“I heard on the radio that the weather service called it a derecho. They said it was a storm made up of straight-line winds of hurricane force. Gusts in Baudette in excess of a hundred miles an hour. They’re rare, apparently, but when they hit . . .” He stopped and eyed the lake outside, which was full of islands as numerous as flies on a carcass. “When they hit,” he went on, “they tear up everything in their path.”

“Jenny’s all right,” Rose said to him. “They’re both all right.”

He accepted her assurance with a nod and nothing more.

“Okay,” Bascombe said. “Let’s see what we can pin down. When they left, did they say anything to you about where they were going?”

Anne said, “Just to the Angle to pick up Aaron.”

“Where were you anchored?”

“In a bay up above Tranquil Channel,” Mal replied.

“Okay,” Bascombe said. He stood and went to the nearest wall, where a huge map of the lake hung. He pointed to a wide area of relatively empty water. “To get to the Angle there would be three main routes. Anybody who knows the lake knows that you have to stay with the main routes, otherwise you’re very likely to hit one of the rocks or reefs hidden just under the surface. Did they have GPS?”