He stopped for a moment. He could see darkness beyond pools of security lights—empty docks, the canal, and a hollow-looking space that he knew was the bay. Something was missing from the deepwater seawall.
Where the hell’s my boat?
He’d been so busy dealing with cops, he’d forgotten about Augie and his butt-buddy taking the Viking out to go scuba diving. They should’ve been back a couple of hours ago. Unless Augie had decided to stop somewhere for a drink, brag about what a hotshit he was in the fancy boat that he didn’t own, and that—Bern was just deciding this—Augie would never ever use again in his life.
Bern needed that boat in case his luck hadn’t changed, although he was pretty sure it had.
A moment later, though, after he’d leafed through the contents of the first envelope, he whispered, “Shit,” and dropped the papers on the desk.
Maybe his luck was the same. Still bad, getting worse.
W ritten in his grandfather’s shaky hand: “Bernie, I kept a file on your recreational activities. I recommend you cooperate with Jason.”
Bernie. Jesus Christ, he hated that name.
Attached to the note were copies of dozens of newspaper clippings: the Milwaukee Journal, the Madison State Journal, the Baraboo News Republic, and several weekly papers.
The clippings dated back to Bern’s troubled adolescence, one headlined:
BARABOO TEEN EVALUATED
AFTER ASSAULT WITH HAMMER
It was not surprising the old man had kept the article. He held grudges for a lifetime, so why not keep them in a scrap-book like scalps?
The other clippings were more troubling:
ASSAULTS PLAGUE BARABOO PARK.
COPS HUNT RAPIST DUO
These were from his high school and college days; a time when he was first experimenting with a game a buddy of his called Caveman. They’d walk in from the backside of Devil’s Lake State Park—a popular place for campers; neckers, too—and hang out along the Ice Age Trail, a famous Wisconsin nature path where granola munchers loved to hike. Around sunset was the best time: pretty, with the lake in the distance, trees on rock ledges above. Wait for some doper girls to come jiggling along and introduce themselves.
If the doper girls were friendly, he and his buddy would have fun. If they weren’t, they still had fun. Grab them by the hair—like cavemen—and pull them down the hill to a place where they already had a blanket laid out and a couple of six-packs of beer.
How did the old man know it was him?
Spooky.
One clipping was headlined: LOCAL AUTHORITIES SEEK OUTSIDE ADVICE. It said an FBI expert on criminal profiling had been invited to Baraboo to help decipher a pattern in the timing of the assaults. Bern remembered reading this story, and thinking: Uh-oh. Time for the Cavemen to hit the showers.
His grandfather had circled the headline in red, and scribbled: “Idiots never checked local football schedule!”
Bern thought about that for a moment. What did playing Caveman have to do with football? Well…maybe the old man had something. They’d started grabbing girls when summer two-a-day practices ended, and went to the park only on weekend nights they didn’t have a game.
By then, he and his buddy were being referred to as “the Devil’s Lake Stalkers.” Funny. All fired up on steroids, with no practice, no game, and tons of boyish energy to burn.
Once, a couple of local cops stepped out of the bushes as they entered the park; said they were staked out, waiting for the rapists, and wanted to ask a few questions. Bern’s buddy—a defensive end who later started all four years at Grinnell—told the cops, “This is quite a coincidence, officers, we looking for those bad boys ourselves. If they’re lucky, you’ll catch ’em before me and my man Bernard get our hands on ’em,” speaking in the funny way black guys did.
They spent the next hour with the cops, talking football, telling them Baraboo could beat any high school team in Milwaukee or Madison, bring them on.
That was their last visit to the park.
Bern took the time to read one of the articles and nearly smiled. “Descriptions of the stalkers are consistent in that both men are described as ‘huge,’ but otherwise vary greatly. Victims have described both as ‘white, Hispanic, Afro-American, and Asian.’”
Bern was thinking, Not even close, as he tossed the article aside.
There was another packet of Xeroxed clippings, these more recent.
MILWAUKEE POLICE SEEK SERIAL RAPIST
There were several like that. But there were also stories about assaults that took place in Appleton…Sauk City…Prairie du Chien…that Bern wasn’t involved with. No association whatsoever.
Just like the old bastard to blame him for crap he didn’t do.
Bern couldn’t say the same about stories in the Miami Herald and the Tampa Tribune.
HOPE FADES FOR MISSING GAINESVILLE COED.
MOTHER OF TWO DISAPPEARS FROM MALL
They gave him a chill. He’d never meant it to go that way. But sometimes shit happened.
The old man had circled a paragraph that read, “A witness who encountered the suspect prior to the student’s abduction described the man as ‘gigantic’ and said he had a distinctive regional accent. Police believe the suspect left so many clues, they will be able to identify him soon.”
On the clipping, his grandfather had written: “Stupid amateur!”
What did that mean?
Bern opened the second envelope, thinking: She’s been in that oil drum nearly a year and not a soul’s come snooping. What’s so stupid about that?
Inside the second envelope, sent by the old man’s personal assistant, were copies of handwritten bills of sale that were similar to the ones Bern had found in the foul-smelling briefcase. All dated between 1939 and October 1944, and attached to legal descriptions of land his grandfather had bought.
Stole, more like it, judging from some of the prices.
Wait…that wasn’t fair. The old man was a sadistic bully, sure, but his business skills were hall of fame. He was tough, foresighted, shrewd—qualities Bern had yet to demonstrate, but hoped they were lying dormant somewhere inside.
He read a few of the bills of sale.
For a parcel of land, 22 acres more or less, running from the bayside of Marco Island to the beach, legal description attached, sale is hereby consummated in consideration of payment of $1,750 cash…
How much would an acre of Marco Island beachfront sell for today?
Millions.
There was a bill of sale for three acres, “bay to beach,” on Captiva Island—$600. Seven acres on Siesta Key—$350. Ten acres Clearwater Beach—$1,300.
Today, these three properties alone would be worth sixty, seventy million dollars. There were more receipts for acreage he’d purchased, fifteen…no, twenty-three more bills of sale. All beach or bayfront, with the exception of twenty-six acres he bought in Orlando—June 1943—lakefront acreage, cost: $2,145.
The company still owned the parcel, had yet to develop it.
The old man had sold some of his holdings to capitalize his developments. But there was still a lot of raw land in the portfolio. Bern made a mental note to look next time he was at the home office in Appleton. He had every right to do it. In fact, the bozos at the home office might as well get used to him poking around. As long as the company remained solvent for two years—actually, twenty-three months and counting—fifty-one percent of the Florida land company would belong to Bern. Plus, he’d get back his personal assets, which he’d signed over, so he had a vested interest.