cold and the loneliness and the starvation that faced mere humans who dared the northern winters. But some still believed it flew and moaned and consumed the unwary.
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.
Had Scotty that lean and hungry look? Tinker and Damien thought they saw it; saw the result in the fleshy roll around his belly.
In the morning, Anna decided, she would talk with Butkus—nose around—find Donna before Tinker and Damien got themselves crosswise of Scotty. For all his apparent good-old-boy bonhomie, he had a reputation for stabbing people in the back. Anna would not like to see Tinker or Damien hurt.
She thought of them sharing their narrow bunk. They must sleep curled together like kittens. It would be a good night to curl up with someone.
There’d been a man in Texas. Rogelio was a man to curl up with on hot nights. Not a Zachary, not someone to share a life with—or a narrow bunk bed—but a good man. “A warm body,” she said to those same stars. “I could do with a couple of those right now.”
Maybe Molly was right; maybe it was time to sprinkle Zachary’s ashes, give him to the lake. Anna smiled. Zach would be miserable in this wilderness of water and woods. He would have his ashes sprinkled over Manhattan on New Year’s Day. “At least then you’d be on Broadway,” Anna said to a memory.
T he lake, at least in the harbor, chose to be kind, and rocked Anna gently to sleep before she had time to think too hard.
CHAPTER 4
A nna woke feeling groggy and gummy. The Administration Building on Mott had an employee shower for the use of guests and backcountry rangers on overnight to the “big city.” She paddled her kayak the few miles down-channel and treated herself to a hot shower that wasted enough water to keep her permanently out of the Environmentalists’ Hall of Fame. It was worth it. The heat steamed away the mildew she felt beginning to grow in her hair and rinsed the sweat, mosquito repellent, and sunblock from her skin.
Dried and refreshed, she cadged a cup of bad coffee from the pot the dispatcher always kept hot, then wandered out to the dock to drink it in with the thin sunshine. The day was fair and promised to be warm—or warm for Isle Royale—somewhere in the sixties. A westerly breeze, smelling of pine and the loamy soil of the boreal forests, trickled in over the island.
Anna leaned back against the warming cement of the quay and closed her eyes.
She was down to the last gulp of coffee, the Cremora scum clinging to the plastic cup, when Scotty Butkus stomped onto the dock, reminding her of her promise to Tinker and Damien.
As always when in uniform, Scotty looked natty. The creases in his shirt were as sharp as if he ironed them instead of just snatching them out of the dryer before the permapress became permacrunch. His brass badge sparkled and his cowboy boots were polished to a fine gloss.
The boots were an absurdity. There wasn’t a horse for hundreds of square miles and anything but soft, white-soled shoes were forbidden on boats—they marked up the decks. But Scotty went booted in the Cisco, a nineteen-foot runabout he used for harbor patrol. He’d even worn them in the Lorelei the time Anna had ridden with him and the District Ranger to Windigo.
Scotty was also wearing his side arm. Because of the low crime rate and the ever present danger of death by drowning, wearing defensive equipment on ISRO was optional. Butkus was the only ranger who opted to lug the heavy piece around. In concession to water safety he had struck a compromise that
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.
Had Scotty that lean and hungry look? Tinker and Damien thought they saw it; saw the result in the fleshy roll around his belly.
In the morning, Anna decided, she would talk with Butkus—nose around—find Donna before Tinker and Damien got themselves crosswise of Scotty. For all his apparent good-old-boy bonhomie, he had a reputation for stabbing people in the back. Anna would not like to see Tinker or Damien hurt.
She thought of them sharing their narrow bunk. They must sleep curled together like kittens. It would be a good night to curl up with someone.
There’d been a man in Texas. Rogelio was a man to curl up with on hot nights. Not a Zachary, not someone to share a life with—or a narrow bunk bed—but a good man. “A warm body,” she said to those same stars. “I could do with a couple of those right now.”
Maybe Molly was right; maybe it was time to sprinkle Zachary’s ashes, give him to the lake. Anna smiled. Zach would be miserable in this wilderness of water and woods. He would have his ashes sprinkled over Manhattan on New Year’s Day. “At least then you’d be on Broadway,” Anna said to a memory.
T he lake, at least in the harbor, chose to be kind, and rocked Anna gently to sleep before she had time to think too hard.
CHAPTER 4
A nna woke feeling groggy and gummy. The Administration Building on Mott had an employee shower for the use of guests and backcountry rangers on overnight to the “big city.” She paddled her kayak the few miles down-channel and treated herself to a hot shower that wasted enough water to keep her permanently out of the Environmentalists’ Hall of Fame. It was worth it. The heat steamed away the mildew she felt beginning to grow in her hair and rinsed the sweat, mosquito repellent, and sunblock from her skin.
Dried and refreshed, she cadged a cup of bad coffee from the pot the dispatcher always kept hot, then wandered out to the dock to drink it in with the thin sunshine. The day was fair and promised to be warm—or warm for Isle Royale—somewhere in the sixties. A westerly breeze, smelling of pine and the loamy soil of the boreal forests, trickled in over the island.
Anna leaned back against the warming cement of the quay and closed her eyes.
She was down to the last gulp of coffee, the Cremora scum clinging to the plastic cup, when Scotty Butkus stomped onto the dock, reminding her of her promise to Tinker and Damien.
As always when in uniform, Scotty looked natty. The creases in his shirt were as sharp as if he ironed them instead of just snatching them out of the dryer before the permapress became permacrunch. His brass badge sparkled and his cowboy boots were polished to a fine gloss.
The boots were an absurdity. There wasn’t a horse for hundreds of square miles and anything but soft, white-soled shoes were forbidden on boats—they marked up the decks. But Scotty went booted in the Cisco, a nineteen-foot runabout he used for harbor patrol. He’d even worn them in the Lorelei the time Anna had ridden with him and the District Ranger to Windigo.
Scotty was also wearing his side arm. Because of the low crime rate and the ever present danger of death by drowning, wearing defensive equipment on ISRO was optional. Butkus was the only ranger who opted to lug the heavy piece around. In concession to water safety he had struck a compromise that
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