The Northwoods Chronicles by Elizabeth Engstrom

Cousins.
No nothing, but the nice, long, straight piece of timber bamboo
that had served her in this strange capacity since that first
night.
    “Almost forgot about this bog,” Sheriff Withens
said behind her. “It moved here with the island intact, eh? Odd
stuff, that.”
    “He comes out of there every morning,” Kimberly
said.
    “He? He who?”
    “Cousins.”
    “Comes out of the bog?”
    Kimberly nodded and then started to cry. “I poke
him back under with that pole,” she said, and then collapsed
against his ample chest and began to sob.
    The sheriff put big arms around her and held her
for a long moment. “What if I took over that chore for the next
week or so?”
    “Huh?” She swiped at her runny nose.
    “Let’s you go into the house and get a nice cup
of tea, Kimberly. I think I’ll call Doctor Sanborn and see if he
can come by to see you. Meanwhile, don’t you come out here on this
island until I tell you it’s okay. I’ll take care of poking Cousins
back down under the bog.”
    She nodded. It didn’t make any sense to her that
the sheriff would help her hide the evidence of her murder, but
what the hell. If he wanted to come out here and poke Cousins back
down under every morning, it would be a big load off her
shoulders.
    She let the sheriff take her back home, and he
put the teakettle on while she sat on the sofa and listened to him
talk on the telephone to Dr. Sanborn’s wife who agreed to have the
doctor phone in a prescription. She felt such relief she could
barely believe it. And she hadn’t said a word about Natasha. She’d
go to jail by herself for this crime. When the sheriff left, she’d
call Natasha and tell her that she was going to prison. Taking
Cousins’ place.
    But Natasha’s line was busy, so Kimberly just
went to bed.
    In the morning, the sheriff’s car pulled deep
into the drive. He got out, wearing gum boots, opened the trunk and
hauled a long bundle out, hoisted it on his shoulder, where it bent
in a very convenient way, and then made his way down the lawn and
onto the island. It was heavy, she could tell by the way he
staggered under its weight.
    She began to iron a blouse to wear to jail.
    A half hour later, she heard the patrol car
start up, and sure enough, Sheriff Withens drove off. She went to
the shop and acted as if nothing was wrong.
    The next morning was a repeat performance. And
the next. And the next.
    After about a week, the sheriff began to bring
her a donut and coffee in the morning at the shop. She’d drink the
coffee, and he’d eventually say, “You going to eat that?” eyeing
the donut. She’d shake her head, and he’d take it off her hands.
They wouldn’t say much, just stand around conspiratorially.
    Another week went by, and every day the sheriff
took a long wrapped bundle of something over his shoulder to the
bog. And Kimberly began to relax.
    And then there was another week of the sheriff’s
early morning visits to the bog, empty-handed. And then no more
visits by the sheriff.
    Until one evening, when the sun set late and the
fireflies came winking around. Kimberly was sitting on the back
porch enjoying a late cup of coffee when the patrol car pulled into
the drive. He waved to her, then went on down the lawn and onto the
island.
    She waited.
    Twenty minutes later, he was back, the bamboo
pole in his hand.
    “Coffee, Sheriff?” she asked once he got within
range.
    “Thanks, no, Miss Kimberly,” he said. “It’s too
late. I’d be up all night.” He leaned the pole next to the porch,
then climbed the stairs and sat next to her. “Storm coming,” he
said. “Make sure you’ve got firewood and candles and fresh
water.”
    She nodded.
    “Fine pole,” he said. “Where’d you get such a
thing?”
    She pointed at the tall greenhouse with her
chin.
    “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Well, it did the
trick, that’s for sure. I was running out of places to store them,
if you know what I mean.”
    She didn’t know, and she didn’t