North of Nowhere by Steve Hamilton Page B

causing damage that was estimated at over five thousand dollars. The police beat reporter summed up the entry with a simple statement: “The dog was not cited.”
    The crimes on the blotter are usually just drunk driving and the occasional vandalism, the petty thefts and the possession of drugs in small quantities—the “forbidden weed,” as the reporter once called it. It’s not often that he gets to take the lead story on page one, and write about something big, like what happened at Vargas’s house. The day before, he only had time for the bare details—break-in at local residence, armed intruders, nobody harmed, Soo police pursuing the case. In today’s paper, with more time to develop the story, the good readers of the Soo Evening News got the full treatment, complete with a trio of “costumed assailants,” who methodically ransacked one room of the house while five guests lay facedown on the floor. Mercifully, they didn’t list the names of the guests.
    Anyone with information pertaining to the case was asked to contact Chief Roy Maven immediately.
    “Quite a write-up, huh?” Jackie’s son said.
    “I think some people will be locking their doors in Sault Ste. Marie tonight,” I said. “And keeping their shotguns loaded.”
    Jackie just listened to us talk about it. He didn’t say anything himself.
    “Jackie, are you gonna tell me what’s bothering you?” I said. “Or are you just gonna keep moping around the place?”
    He looked at me without smiling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening.”
    “Relax,” I said. “If you’re still working on what happened, I understand.”
    “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you understand. I gotta go change the tap.”
    I looked at his son. He just shrugged his shoulders.
    Two minutes later, Jackie was back. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he said. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
    “Don’t apologize,” I said. “If you want to talk about it…”
    “I will,” he said. “In a few days. Okay? Give me a few days.”
    “Whatever you say, Jackie. I’ll be here.”
    He smiled for the first time since I had walked into the place. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding you.”
    I left a couple of hours later, after finishing the paper and another cold Canadian or two. Instead of turning onto my road, I kept going north, all the way to the top of Whitefish Point. I got out and walked past the Shipwreck Museum, out onto the beach. There was real sand here, unlike most of the rocky shoreline on this lake. I walked west, picking up driftwood as I went. The surf broke against the sand. The sun went down and put on its show for me. It was the right way to end the day.
    When I got back to my cabin, I stood just inside the door, trying to figure out what was wrong. Nothing was missing. Nothing was out of place. And yet, somehow, I knew someone else had been there.
    I looked at the door. There was no sign of forced entry. I looked at the windows, found two of them open and unlocked. I always left them open in the summertime, and never thought about intruders way the hell out here in the woods.
    I walked around the place, trying to figure it out. If nothing was stolen, and I had nothing worth stealing in the first place…If nothing was destroyed or even moved…Then somebody was looking for something. And apparently didn’t find it. Assuming it happened at all. Assuming I wasn’t just acting paranoid after the strange day I had just lived through…
    Vargas. Could he have sent somebody to search my cabin while I was out on the lake with him? I wouldn’t put it past him.
    “Oh, Leon,” I said out loud. “You didn’t do this, did you?”
    I called his number. I owed his wife a call back, anyway. When she answered, I realized I didn’t have much to tell her about my meeting with Vargas—we never did get around to talking about Leon.
    “Is he home?” I said.
    “No, he isn’t,” she said. “I don’t know where