gotten a motorboat through?” Violet asks.
“Yes, and I didn’t find one. I also didn’t find one in Lake Garner, but that’s a lot bigger and harder to scout. So maybe there was one and I missed it.”
It’s a nice question, but I don’t think Violet’s headed where Albin is. “Can we see Autumn and Benjy’s autopsy reports?” I say.
“No. I don’t believe that’s legal.”
I don’t know if it is or isn’t. * I try “Is there anything you need to tell us to keep us out of danger?”
I don’t know what oaths to protect people sheriffs here or anywhere else are required to take, but I assume there are some. And maybe they allow, or even require, Albin to cough up information it would otherwise be illegal or unethical to share.
At least, I
think
that’s what he’s been getting at.
“Ideally, walk away now,” he says. “I look at this, I see a lot of downside and essentially zero upside. If you do insist on going through with it, don’t give Reggie Trager the benefit of the doubt just because I don’t think he’s guilty. I’m not a grand jury. Don’t go anywhere in Ford except CFS—the town’s too dangerous. And keep me posted on absolutely everything that happens. Which I don’t mean as an option. I’ll give you my direct line and my e-mail address. If I decide at any point that you’ve withheld information that even
might
be useful to a criminal investigation,I will make certain you become sorry to have done that. Do we understand each other?”
We nod. Violet says “Yes sir.”
“And one last thing. When you get out to White Lake—don’t go in the water.”
11
Ford, Minnesota
Still Friday, 14 September
“That guy totally thinks Aquabigfoot is real,” Violet says.
“I agree.” We’re back on U.S. 53, headed to Ford to check into the CFS Lodge. She’s driving. “So do we need to discuss it?”
“What?” she says. “That the sheriff of Lake County thinks the monster is real, or that the monster might actually
be
real?”
“The sheriff part.”
“Whew. For a second I was worried you were getting all spandrelly on me.” *
“You got the wrong guy.”
“Although I
would
like to know why somebody as unstupid-seeming as Sheriff Albin thinks it’s possible.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
CFS Outfitters and Lodge isn’t just
on
the highway exit that’s one past greater (so to speak) Ford—it
is
the highway exit. You curve under a giant CFS billboard into the parking lot of the store, which is a three-story A-frame with posters for shit like North Face all over its glass front and back. From there you follow the signs to a road that runs from the far corner of the lot down to the lodge.
The start of the road’s blocked off by traffic cones, but a tall, thin, early-twenties kid in a bush hat but sunburned anyway comes over to your car with a clipboard. “Ki help you folks?” he says, after Violet rolls down the window.
“We’re here for the tour Reggie Trager is running.”
“Get your names, please?”
“Violet Hurst and Lionel Azimuth.”
The kid checks for us on his clipboard, which seems strange for someone expecting only six or eight people. Then again, maybe clipboards are like guns, and people who carry them start wanting to use them.
“Doctor. Doctor,” the kid says. “I’m Davey Sugar. I’ll be one of the guides on your trip. Welcome to CFS.”
He looks so earnest, and so unlike someone involved in a sordid fake-monster tour, that I feel compelled to make sure we’re all talking about the same thing. I lean over Violet to say “What do you think? Is the White Lake Monster real?”
The kid smiles broadly as he backs up to move the cones. “I’d have to say I’m agnostic about it. Be pretty great, though, wouldn’t it?”
The road crests the hill, and suddenly we can see all of Ford Lake below, light flashing off it like a chain-link fence made of sun. Even the brick hulk of the old Ford Mine—with, presumably, Dr.
“Yes, and I didn’t find one. I also didn’t find one in Lake Garner, but that’s a lot bigger and harder to scout. So maybe there was one and I missed it.”
It’s a nice question, but I don’t think Violet’s headed where Albin is. “Can we see Autumn and Benjy’s autopsy reports?” I say.
“No. I don’t believe that’s legal.”
I don’t know if it is or isn’t. * I try “Is there anything you need to tell us to keep us out of danger?”
I don’t know what oaths to protect people sheriffs here or anywhere else are required to take, but I assume there are some. And maybe they allow, or even require, Albin to cough up information it would otherwise be illegal or unethical to share.
At least, I
think
that’s what he’s been getting at.
“Ideally, walk away now,” he says. “I look at this, I see a lot of downside and essentially zero upside. If you do insist on going through with it, don’t give Reggie Trager the benefit of the doubt just because I don’t think he’s guilty. I’m not a grand jury. Don’t go anywhere in Ford except CFS—the town’s too dangerous. And keep me posted on absolutely everything that happens. Which I don’t mean as an option. I’ll give you my direct line and my e-mail address. If I decide at any point that you’ve withheld information that even
might
be useful to a criminal investigation,I will make certain you become sorry to have done that. Do we understand each other?”
We nod. Violet says “Yes sir.”
“And one last thing. When you get out to White Lake—don’t go in the water.”
11
Ford, Minnesota
Still Friday, 14 September
“That guy totally thinks Aquabigfoot is real,” Violet says.
“I agree.” We’re back on U.S. 53, headed to Ford to check into the CFS Lodge. She’s driving. “So do we need to discuss it?”
“What?” she says. “That the sheriff of Lake County thinks the monster is real, or that the monster might actually
be
real?”
“The sheriff part.”
“Whew. For a second I was worried you were getting all spandrelly on me.” *
“You got the wrong guy.”
“Although I
would
like to know why somebody as unstupid-seeming as Sheriff Albin thinks it’s possible.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
CFS Outfitters and Lodge isn’t just
on
the highway exit that’s one past greater (so to speak) Ford—it
is
the highway exit. You curve under a giant CFS billboard into the parking lot of the store, which is a three-story A-frame with posters for shit like North Face all over its glass front and back. From there you follow the signs to a road that runs from the far corner of the lot down to the lodge.
The start of the road’s blocked off by traffic cones, but a tall, thin, early-twenties kid in a bush hat but sunburned anyway comes over to your car with a clipboard. “Ki help you folks?” he says, after Violet rolls down the window.
“We’re here for the tour Reggie Trager is running.”
“Get your names, please?”
“Violet Hurst and Lionel Azimuth.”
The kid checks for us on his clipboard, which seems strange for someone expecting only six or eight people. Then again, maybe clipboards are like guns, and people who carry them start wanting to use them.
“Doctor. Doctor,” the kid says. “I’m Davey Sugar. I’ll be one of the guides on your trip. Welcome to CFS.”
He looks so earnest, and so unlike someone involved in a sordid fake-monster tour, that I feel compelled to make sure we’re all talking about the same thing. I lean over Violet to say “What do you think? Is the White Lake Monster real?”
The kid smiles broadly as he backs up to move the cones. “I’d have to say I’m agnostic about it. Be pretty great, though, wouldn’t it?”
The road crests the hill, and suddenly we can see all of Ford Lake below, light flashing off it like a chain-link fence made of sun. Even the brick hulk of the old Ford Mine—with, presumably, Dr.
Similar Books
