that?”
He shrugged. He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt, pressed jeans, a belt with a big silver buckle, looking almost natty. It was good to see him taking an interest in his appearance again. And in havingcompany around. I watched Trixie tug at the leash, eager to get at the Dumpster.
“So, are you going back?” he asked.
“If Meloux had his way, we’d already be on the road.”
“But?”
I looked up at him and said impatiently, “There’s an international investigation under way. Do you think I want to step into the middle of that?”
“Come on, Cork. Across borders, nothing moves fast.”
“Including me. Look, I’m guessing you’re here thinking that there’s something major in the works and maybe you can help with it. Well, I’m telling you that’s not the case. I’ve done what I promised for Henry Meloux, and I’m finished. The police will take it from here, and that’s fine with me. All right?”
He eyed me, surprised. “You’re not even curious?”
“Of course I’m curious. Hell, I feel responsible. That guy followed me out to Meloux’s. Damn, I should have spotted him.”
“Give yourself a break,” Schanno suggested. “You had a lot on your mind.”
“I’m not about to make matters worse by wading in any deeper. I’ve got a business to run. I’ve got a family to think about. We’re not cops anymore, you and me. Let’s let the people who’re wearing the badges do their jobs, okay?”
A grasshopper banged against the side of the Quonset hut and fell into the gravel at our feet. Trixie tried to attack it and yanked Schanno hard. The grasshopper took an enormous hop. Trixie leaped at it, hit the end of the leash, and fell back with a pained yelp.
“All right, then,” Schanno said curtly. He turned away and walked Trixie back to his truck.
I watched him go, feeling not at all good about how I’d treated him, but wondering, too, resentfully, why it was that everyone else seemed to have such a clear idea of what I ought to do.
Sheriff Marcia Dross drove into the parking lot of Sam’s Place in the brittle blue light well after sunset. In town, the streetlamps andthe shop lights had come on. I don’t have a big lighted sign for the Quonset hut, just a tall pole with a halogen lamp on top that brightens the area in front of the serving windows. Dross got out of her cruiser, came up to the windows, and asked to see me outside. That’s never a good sign.
We walked to the picnic table under the big red pine near the shoreline. We were out of the light there. A warm wind blew across Iron Lake and small waves slapped near our feet. The moon wasn’t up yet, and the other side of the lake was sliding into restless black.
Dross got right to the point.
“Cork, you said Morrissey worked for Henry Wellington.”
“That’s right.”
“According to the Canadian authorities Ed Larson spoke with, Morrissey runs a guide service, takes hunters and fishermen up into the wilderness of northern Ontario.”
“The only place he guided me was out to Manitou Island.”
“Where, according to the Ontario police, Henry Wellington is not currently in residence. They say they’re trying to talk to Rupert Wellington, but he’s been unavailable.”
“Unavailable?”
“Whatever that means.”
“He was in Thunder Bay yesterday and quite available. And Henry Wellington was definitely on Manitou Island. Are you getting good information?”
Even in the dark, I could see the consternation on her face. “It’s all being done by fax and phone. They’re sending an investigator down to talk to us, maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
“Why doesn’t Ed pay them a visit?”
“They haven’t exactly invited us. Ed thinks we’re being stonewalled.”
“What do you think?”
“Why would they stonewall us?” she asked.
“Pressure from powerful people, maybe. The Wellingtons are powerful. Or maybe a little territorial posturing. They’re not always happy with their neighbors
He shrugged. He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt, pressed jeans, a belt with a big silver buckle, looking almost natty. It was good to see him taking an interest in his appearance again. And in havingcompany around. I watched Trixie tug at the leash, eager to get at the Dumpster.
“So, are you going back?” he asked.
“If Meloux had his way, we’d already be on the road.”
“But?”
I looked up at him and said impatiently, “There’s an international investigation under way. Do you think I want to step into the middle of that?”
“Come on, Cork. Across borders, nothing moves fast.”
“Including me. Look, I’m guessing you’re here thinking that there’s something major in the works and maybe you can help with it. Well, I’m telling you that’s not the case. I’ve done what I promised for Henry Meloux, and I’m finished. The police will take it from here, and that’s fine with me. All right?”
He eyed me, surprised. “You’re not even curious?”
“Of course I’m curious. Hell, I feel responsible. That guy followed me out to Meloux’s. Damn, I should have spotted him.”
“Give yourself a break,” Schanno suggested. “You had a lot on your mind.”
“I’m not about to make matters worse by wading in any deeper. I’ve got a business to run. I’ve got a family to think about. We’re not cops anymore, you and me. Let’s let the people who’re wearing the badges do their jobs, okay?”
A grasshopper banged against the side of the Quonset hut and fell into the gravel at our feet. Trixie tried to attack it and yanked Schanno hard. The grasshopper took an enormous hop. Trixie leaped at it, hit the end of the leash, and fell back with a pained yelp.
“All right, then,” Schanno said curtly. He turned away and walked Trixie back to his truck.
I watched him go, feeling not at all good about how I’d treated him, but wondering, too, resentfully, why it was that everyone else seemed to have such a clear idea of what I ought to do.
Sheriff Marcia Dross drove into the parking lot of Sam’s Place in the brittle blue light well after sunset. In town, the streetlamps andthe shop lights had come on. I don’t have a big lighted sign for the Quonset hut, just a tall pole with a halogen lamp on top that brightens the area in front of the serving windows. Dross got out of her cruiser, came up to the windows, and asked to see me outside. That’s never a good sign.
We walked to the picnic table under the big red pine near the shoreline. We were out of the light there. A warm wind blew across Iron Lake and small waves slapped near our feet. The moon wasn’t up yet, and the other side of the lake was sliding into restless black.
Dross got right to the point.
“Cork, you said Morrissey worked for Henry Wellington.”
“That’s right.”
“According to the Canadian authorities Ed Larson spoke with, Morrissey runs a guide service, takes hunters and fishermen up into the wilderness of northern Ontario.”
“The only place he guided me was out to Manitou Island.”
“Where, according to the Ontario police, Henry Wellington is not currently in residence. They say they’re trying to talk to Rupert Wellington, but he’s been unavailable.”
“Unavailable?”
“Whatever that means.”
“He was in Thunder Bay yesterday and quite available. And Henry Wellington was definitely on Manitou Island. Are you getting good information?”
Even in the dark, I could see the consternation on her face. “It’s all being done by fax and phone. They’re sending an investigator down to talk to us, maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
“Why doesn’t Ed pay them a visit?”
“They haven’t exactly invited us. Ed thinks we’re being stonewalled.”
“What do you think?”
“Why would they stonewall us?” she asked.
“Pressure from powerful people, maybe. The Wellingtons are powerful. Or maybe a little territorial posturing. They’re not always happy with their neighbors
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