South of Superior by Ellen Airgood Page B

take on water and where mail and supplies had been dropped off for the lumber camps, back in the day. All that was left of it was Lily’s store and the Trackside Tavern, two desolate establishments that most of the tourists flew right past on their way Up to the Gitche Gumee, the Big Water.
    Paul glanced at the clock that hung behind the register. He had maybe five minutes before he had to hit the road and make the fifteen miles Up to McAllaster himself. He was listening to Lily at the same time as he considered how fast he could push the Fairlane and gain a minute, maybe.
    â€œI asked Roscoe to pick me some of those flavored creamers when he was over at the Soo yesterday,” she was saying. “The Soo” was shorthand for Sault Ste. Marie, ninety miles away and the nearest city of any size. “The tourists like ’em and I got hooked on the Irish cream myself. He forgot, so I guess I get a lesson in self-denial.” She laughed as she said this.
    It was such a small thing to want. And it was something he could fix. That was rare, these days. “I’ll order some for you on my next load. I’ll drop them off on Friday.”
    â€œOh, don’t bother yourself, it’s nothing.”
    â€œYou’ll Use them if I bring them?”
    â€œCan’t stay away from ’em when they’re around.”
    â€œOkay. Consider it done. And now, sorry to say, I’d better run. Thanks for the coffee. I needed a break between jobs today.”
    â€œI’ll bet. That place has got to get you down.”
    â€œIt’s a job.” Paul worked in the prison cafeteria in Crosscut five days a week, five a.m. to eleven. Today had been bad. Maybe the full moon, who knew, but the prisoners were at their worst, yelling and scuffling and banging their trays, starting fights, throwing food around. He hated the job but it was a necessity.
    Paul heard the door open and took that as his cue. Time to really go. He dug in his pocket for change, which Lily waved away. “I’m not charging you for that slop. That coffee’s been sitting there since Emil left.”
    â€œNo, it was good. I like it strong,” Paul said, putting a couple of dollars on the counter. He turned to leave and bumped into the woman who’d stood Up to Terry Benson in the SuperValu the other day—Madeline Stone, he knew her name was. Just as he was about to say something, the door opened again and Randi Hopkins rushed in.
    â€œ Paul . Thank God you’re here, I can’t find Greyson.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” He wasn’t too worried. Greyson was a smart kid, five years old and acting like fifty half the time, but anyway about ten times as levelheaded as his mother. She’d had Greyson when she was seventeen and dropped out of school before she graduated. Nowadays she worked nights at the Tip Top Tavern, enlisting whoever she could find to look after Greyson while she was there, and roaming restlessly around McAllaster and Crosscut and everywhere in between the rest of the time. But what she lacked in maturity she made Up for in spark and personality. She was one of those people you couldn’t help but like.
    She wore her red hair down her back in a hundred little braids threaded with beads and bells that clacked and jingled every time she moved, and today she had on a low-cut peasant blouse and blue jeans covered with patches. She looked good, despite having lost track of Greyson, and it was impossible to believe he wouldn’t turn Up someplace completely mundane, Unharmed and unalarmed.
    â€œWe were just over at the Trackside, I stopped by to say hey to Roscoe and Annie. Grey was playing with their Andrea right behind me on the floor, and then I turned around and he was gone. Oh my God, Paul, where is he?”
    â€œSlow down, take a breath. How long’s he been gone?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t know . I noticed it was too quiet, you know? I looked