“All the kids liked her. She was our poster child for self-improvement.”
“The uncle who abused her, did he know she was here?”
“No. Absolutely not. We guard the kids’ privacy fiercely, and there’s no way Sara would have told him. As far as I know, she’d had no contact since she left them. But it’s my understanding the police are checking out that possibility right now.”
“If she wasn’t at school or work, was there anyplace special where she might have hung out?”
“Yes. Muddy Waters. It’s a coffeehouse a few blocks from here. Downtown on Main Street. She liked to study there.”
“So no reason you can think of for her to be in Bodine?”
“None.”
Dina looked at Jewell. “Anything you’d like to ask?”
“How old was she?”
“Just shy of fifteen,” Mary Hilfiker replied. “She hadn’t even started menstruating.”
“Just a kid. My God.”
“You think someone killed her and put her body in the Copper River?” the woman asked.
“That’s what I think,” Dina replied.
“And these same people killed Charlene’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“Eventually. Right now it’s all pure speculation. As soon as we have something solid, we’ll go to the authorities.”
“I’m guessing you found Charlie. Or she found you. How is she?”
“Safe,” Jewell said.
“Keep her that way.”
Outside, Delmar Bell was still mowing the lawn. He glanced their way as they descended the steps, and he killed the engine. In the quiet that followed, he sauntered toward them, his shadow sliding before him like a black snake over the cut grass.
“Morning, Jewell.”
“Del.”
“Any luck finding Charlie, eh?”
“No.”
“She’ll turn up. Always does.”
“It’s different this time, Del. Her father’s dead.”
“You work here?” Dina said.
He looked her up and down. Then up again. His eyes hung too long on the curve of her breasts. He wiped his hands on his oil-stained T-shirt. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Willner. I’m a private investigator.”
“A PI? For real?”
“For real.”
“You’re a lot better looking than Rockford, eh.”
“Thanks. You’re in charge of maintenance here?”
“In charge?” He smiled, his teeth long in need of a good cleaning. “I like the way you put that. Yeah, I’m in charge.”
“You get to know the kids pretty well?”
“Not really.”
“You know Sara Wolf?”
“Sure. She was around for quite a while.”
“But not anymore.”
“Haven’t seen her for a week, maybe two.” He squinted, lines at the corners of his eyes like the tines of a rake. “That what you’re doing here? Looking for Sara?”
“If I were, would you be able to help?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t really know any of the kids.”
“Not even the ones who are around for quite a while?”
“They pretty much keep to themselves. Look, I got work to do, eh,” he said. “Jewell, always good to see you.”
He headed back toward the mower.
“You know him,” Dina said.
“He’s from Bodine. Graduated same year as me, same year as Charlie’s father. They were drinking buddies. In fact, he’s the one who told Charlie about Providence House and suggested she think about using it when she needed to get away from her father. It was a good suggestion.”
“Does he live here?”
“In back. An old carriage house.”
Bell yanked the cord, and the mower engine sputtered and shot out a cloud of oil smoke.
“He didn’t touch me with anything except his eyes,” Dina said. “But I still feel like I need a bath.” She started toward the side street where Jewell had parked the Blazer, writing a note in her pad as she walked.
“What now?” Jewell said.
“We find more people, ask more questions.”
In the Blazer, Charlie was napping in the backseat, curled in a blanket of sunlight.
“She looks peaceful,” Dina said. “She looks like the kid she really is.”
“She’s had to grow up fast. I’d love to believe the worst is behind her now.”
Dina studied Charlie with a soft gaze. “Let’s do our best to see that it is.”
29
Before she left, Jewell had removed the Penrose drain from Cork’s thigh, closed the wound with butterfly bandages, and taped a sterile gauze pad over the site, this at Cork’s request. She cautioned him that if he wasn’t careful, the wound would open again.
“There’s work to do,” he’d told her, “and I can’t do it with a lot of plumbing hanging out of my leg.”
Although he didn’t like the idea of being less than a hundred percent lucid, he’d taken a Vicodin to help deal with the pain of what he knew was ahead of him. Now he stood in the lane between the cabins waiting for Ren, who’d gone to fetch the ATV from the equipment shed. The plan was to head along the Copper River Trail as far as they could and look for places that might be likely candidates for dumping a body into the river. It was a pretty nonspecific plan and didn’t have a lot of potential for solid payoff, but it had to be done, and Cork and Ren were available.
Cork watched as the boy swung the shed door wide and went inside. At almost the same moment, he heard a vehicle approaching from the main road. He thought maybe it was the women coming back for something they’d forgotten, but he didn’t want to risk it and slipped back inside Thor’s Lodge. He cracked the curtains and watched as a dusty red pickup came into view. Michigan plates. NMU sticker on the windshield. Locals. Cork pulled the Beretta Tomcat from where he’d snugged it in his belt at the small of his back.
The truck stopped in front of the cabin and two men got out. The driver stood well over six feet, with carrot-colored hair and a long face. The other man was also tall and had a well-trimmed mustache and black-rimmed glasses. He held what appeared to be the plaster cast Ren had made of the cougar print. The men started toward Thor’s Lodge, but stopped when they heard the roar of the ATV from the equipment shed. They turned and watched Ren bring the machine up the lane. The boy killed the engine and got down from the seat. He smiled broadly and came forward. Cork moved to the door, which he’d left slightly ajar, so he could hear what was being said.
“Hi, Mr. Taylor.”
“Hey there, Ren. I dropped by school. They told me you were home today. Feel all right?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I brought someone who wants very much to ask you a few questions about that cougar of yours. This is John Schenk, a friend from Northern Michigan University. John, this is that remarkable young man I’ve been telling you about.”
Schenk shook the boy’s hand. “Ken showed me this cast you made of the track. Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
“Mind if I ask you about it?”
“That’s okay.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Over here. I’ll show you.”
Ren led the man to Cabin 3 and pointed out the track he’d used to make the cast. “This is the one, but there were lots I could have used.”
“They were all over?”
“They still are. It’s come at least twice, maybe three times.”
“Really? When?”
“The night before last, and again last night for sure. But I’m pretty sure it was here yesterday morning as well.”
“In the daylight? You saw it?”
“I heard it. Kind of a scream.”
That wasn’t the truth exactly. He was relating what Cork had told him.
“That’s amazing.”
“Why?” R
en asked.
“For several reasons. First of all, the preferred hunting technique of cougars is stalk and ambush. It’s unusual that a stalking cougar would make its presence known with a scream. Also, they tend to be crepuscular, which means they prefer to hunt at dusk or dawn. And, generally speaking, a cougar in these parts is probably well aware of humans and would tend to avoid them. Ken says you don’t have any pets around here. Is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
Schenk furrowed his brow and said, “Hmph.” He looked down at the cast in his hand. “From the size, I’m guessing this is a male. Four and a half inches is about as large a track as you’re likely to find. Probably weighs in at well over two hundred pounds, which is good sized for a cougar. There are a couple reasons I can think of that would bring a big cat this close to humans repeatedly. One would be food—a pet, farm animals, that kind of thing.”
“We don’t have any,” Ren said.
“Have you killed a deer or some other animal lately that you’ve dressed and hung somewhere around here?”
Ren said, “No.”
Schenk glanced around. “I thought maybe the smell of blood.”
Which made Cork think about the piss-colored Dart behind the shed with his blood soaked into the seat and carpeting.
“Another possibility is that it’s been hurt and can’t hunt in its usual way and is looking for garbage or anything else that might provide an easy meal.”
“It tried our garbage bin,” Ren offered, “but we keep the lid closed and locked.”
“Sounds like it’s definitely hungry, which makes it potentially very dangerous. Like I say, normally it probably wouldn’t attack humans, but I wouldn’t take any chances.”
“How come you know about cougars?” Ren asked.
“I’m a zoologist at the university, but I also consult for the Michigan Wildlife Habitat Foundation,” Schenk said. “Cougars are a special interest of mine. Since 1906 the official position of the Department of Natural Resources has been that cougars have been extirpated from Michigan.”
“Extirpated?”
“Driven out completely. This despite the fact that every year there are dozens of sightings in both the lower and upper peninsula. A couple of years ago we collected scat from a number of areas around the northern part of the state where sightings had been reported and sent them for DNA testing. Seven of the samples contained cougar DNA.”
“What made you think it was cougar scat?” Ren asked. “I mean, out of all the scat you might find.”
Schenk laughed. “It’s the sniff test. Cougar scat has an unmistakable smell. It’s kind of like a housecat’s overused litter box, but far more intense. We don’t know why. Maybe because they have a short gut and food passes through more quickly so their digestive juices are stronger.”
“What should we do? Like maybe notify the DNR?”
Schenk shook his head. “Unfortunately, their general response in a situation like this would be to kill the animal.”
“So what do we do?”
“For the time being, take precautions. Don’t go out alone, especially when it’s dark. And keep that lock on the trash bin. If you do happen to confront the animal, face it. They’re reluctant to attack from the front, especially if you stare at them. Generally they’ll back down. What I’d like to do is talk to some people I know who’d be interested in tracking and, if possible, sedating the animal. If it is hurt, maybe there’s something we can do to help it. I’d sure hate to see a creature this rare around here killed.”
“I can handle that,” Ren assured him.
“You’d probably like your cast back, wouldn’t you?” Ken Taylor said.
Schenk handed it over. “Thanks, son. This is really a good thing you’ve done.”
Ren looked down, as if embarrassed in the face of such praise.
“I’ll be in touch,” Schenk said. “Come on, Ken, we’ve got work to do.”
In parting, Taylor put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ren, you be careful, hear?”
“Sure.”
After the two men had driven away, Cork stepped from Thor’s Lodge. “Do you have a hunting rifle, Ren?”
The boy looked at him, confused. “You’re not going to shoot it?”
“I just want to play it safe. I wouldn’t use it unless I absolutely had to. At the moment, all I have is this.” He held out the small Beretta. “It might discourage an animal, but it probably wouldn’t stop a two-hundred-pound cougar.”
Ren said, “There’s two of us. Won’t that keep us safe? And the sound of the ATV?”
He knew that what the boy was really arguing for was the life of the big cat, and he understood. Ren was probably right. A cougar, even a hungry one, would probably be reluctant to attack two humans, and the sound of the ATV would definitely not be to its liking.
“All right,” he said.
They straddled the seat of the ATV, Ren in front, Cork holding on from behind. The engine kicked over and caught. Ren guided the little vehicle through the trees to the Killbelly Marsh Trail, where Cork had found both cougar tracks and those of a man. The boy turned them toward the Copper River, which lay somewhere beyond the trees to the south.
They headed into the woods with no idea of what they would eventually encounter, no idea of the full scope of the horror the Huron Mountains hid.
30
Clovis was not much of a town: an old Mobile gas station at a corner of a crossroad, a tavern diagonally opposite, a few houses surrounding them, the whole place situated in a pine barrens of sandy soil and scrub evergreen.
Dina asked at the gas station and got directions.
The house where Sara Wolf had lived with her aunt and uncle was something a good huffing and puffing could have blown right down. It stood back from the road behind a tangle of brush and diseased pines with brown needles brittle as toothpicks. In the front area—it didn’t exactly qualify as a yard—a completely rusted-over pickup without wheels sat in sand up to its axles. To the right was a sagging garage with most of the windows broken out. An old cocker spaniel who’d been lying in the weeds beside the front steps roused itself and began barking, a hoarse sound without energy. They all got out and waited a moment beside the Blazer because even an old dog has teeth.
The woman who came to the door to look at them was short and wide. She wore jeans and a dark blue sweater. She shaded her eyes with a plump sandstone-colored hand and stared.
“Boozhoo,” Jewell called, using the familiar Ojibwe greeting.
“What do you want?” the woman called over the noise of the dog.
“We’re looking for Sara’s aunt?” Jewell called back.
“What for?”
“We just want to talk to her for a few minutes. About Sara.”
“Are you police? ’Cuz somebody already been here.”
“No. We’re friends.”
Under the awning of her hand, the woman’s eyes held on them a long time, then she said, “Shut up, Sparky.”
The dog seemed grateful not to have to expend any more energy and immediately settled back on its haunches and panted in a tired way as it watched the women approach. When they were close, it eased itself onto all four legs. Its tail began to sweep against the weeds at its back in a friendly way, and it padded forward.
Charlie put her hand out and said, “Hey there, Sparky. How you doing, boy?”
“You knew Sara?” the woman asked.
Jewell indicated the girl. “Charlie here knew her pretty well. I’m Jewell DuBois. This is Dina Willner.”
The woman’s hair was black and fine and cut carelessly at neck length. Through the open door behind her, the living room was visible in the dim interior light, a cluttered place.
“Could we come in and talk for a few minutes?” Jewell asked.
“No,” the woman said. “Frank’ll be back anytime. You gotta go before he comes.”
“Frank?”
“My husband.”
“Sara’s uncle?”<
br />
“Yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw Sara?” Dina asked.
“Cops asked the same thing,” she said. “Almost a year ago. She took off one day, never came back.”
“Did you notify the police?”
She shook her head. “I was expecting it.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t working out here.”
“What exactly wasn’t working?” Dina asked.
The woman looked at her, her brown eyes hard as hickory nuts, giving away nothing. “Who are you people? Why are you asking about Sara?”
“We live in Bodine, where her body was found. We’re trying to understand what she was doing in our town.”
She squinted, perplexed, or perhaps just a reaction to the bright morning sun. “But you’re not cops?”
“No.”
Charlie spoke up. “We were, you know, friends. I was at Providence House with her. I liked her.”
The woman lowered her gaze and it locked on Charlie. Something changed in her aspect, a softening. She glanced toward the road behind them and said, “Come in, but just for a minute.”
They stepped inside, into the stale smell of layered dust and cigarette smoke and spilled beer and cushions stained dark with skin oil. She didn’t invite them to sit. There was nowhere that was not covered with some discarded item: clothing, newspapers, magazines, a couple of pizza boxes. The dog, who was left outside, whined at the door.
“When she ran away, did you know where she went?” Dina asked.
“She didn’t run away. I told her to go.” The woman took a breath and her wide nostrils flared even more. “Frank.” She said the word as if she were saying shit. “She told me what he done, what he made her do, and I told her she had to go. Not leave, you know. Get away.”
“Did you send her to Providence House?”
She nodded. “A girlfriend told me about it. I thought she’d be safe there. I hoped.”
“Did your husband know where she’d gone?”
“No. I didn’t say nuthin’. I told him she run away.”
“The police think she might have gone back to prostitution. What do you think?”
She shook her head firmly. “I don’t think so. Mashkawizii.”