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“That’s what we think,” Tinker said. She had brightened again, A
With comprehension, the fog began to lift from A
“You’ve got expectant ducks and an empty pickle jar,” A
“We also have photographs,” Damien said. He rose, swirling his calf-length cape alarmingly near the open flames, and took down a tin box from the jumble of bags and boxes that filled the top of the two bunk beds.
A
“We’ll need artificial light for this,” Damien apologized. A
Damien sat on the floor again, tailor fashion, the black cape billowing around his knees, then settling like a dark mist. He opened the box with the lid toward A
She took it and the flashlight from his hands. The Polaroid was of Scotty Butkus in his NPS uniform standing on the dock in Houghton. Behind him the hull of the Ranger III rose like a blue wall. Suitcases and boxes and canoes littered the pier. Apparently it was loading day; the day most of the staff moved to the island for the season.
“Now look at this one.” Damien handed her the second photograph.
Dutifully, A
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” she asked.
Tinker, unable to contain herself any longer, leaned over A
Scotty was heavier. His belly hung over his belt and his face was puffy. A
“Not if he was the reincarnation of Charlie Mott,” Damien said triumphantly. He and Tinker looked at her expectantly, twin Perry Masons having delivered the coup de grace.
A
Damien hopped up obediently and switched on the overhead. The room’s mystery vanished. For a few moments the three of them blinked at one another like surprised owls.
“I’ll look into it,” A
“You can stay here,” Tinker offered. “Damien and I sleep on the lower bunk.”
Damien reached out and took his wife’s hand. They shared a smile that made A
“Stay,” Damien said. “You can sleep with Oscar if you don’t mind cigar smoke. Oscar likes company sometimes.”
A
“Oscar says, ‘Anytime.’ ” A
“Thanks,” A
Like the southwestern deserts, the northern lake country was a land of extremes. A
The Lorelei was moored in the concrete NPS dock, tied at bow and stern. A
She unloosed the bow hatch and propped it open. In a space so familiar, the light of the moon would be adequate. Or would have been had District Ranger Pilcher been more organized. “Pigsty,” she grumbled as she cleared a space for herself and unrolled a sleeping bag that smelled of mildew. Everything smelled of damp and was cold to the touch. Fully clothed, she crawled into the bag and thrashed her feet violently to warm it.
As she pulled the stinking cover under her chin, she stared up through the hatch. Seventeen stars pricked the eight-by-sixteen rectangle. They didn’t shimmer like desert stars but burned steady and cold: lights for sailors to navigate by. Stars seemed close to the earth in the north woods but not friendly, not the eyes of angels watching over children as they slept.
The Quallofil bag was slowly warming, but it was a moist warmth A
Her thoughts turned to Tinker and Damien. Tinker was in her thirties-probably not more than five or six years younger than A
And Scotty Butkus the reincarnation of Charlie Mott; A
Charlie was the personification of the Windigo. The story was true. He and his wife had been left on Mott Island without supplies. As winter wore on, Charlie had begun to look at Angelique with a new hunger, ever sharpening his butcher knife. Finally she had escaped to live in a cave. Charlie had perished, his body kept fresh in the cabin by the awful cold. Angelique survived by snaring rabbits with nooses made from the hair of her head.