“Why didn’t you stop him? Didn’t you see him leave?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You were the doorman. How can you not see him leave?”
“I wasn’t down by the door.”
“Was it a maid or a waitress in the restaurant?”
He mumbled something.
“What did you say?”
“I said it was a waitress.”
“Okay, so what happens next? You know your whole family is gonna kill you, so you look for somebody else to pin it on.”
He started to say something, but stopped.
“At least you’re not denying it,” I said. “I’ll give you that. Is there anything you want to tell us? About your grandfather or your uncles? Or anything?”
“No,” he said. “That’s all I know.”
“Come on, then. We’re going.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to wait here, in case Marty comes back.”
“Does he have a snowmobile?”
“No.”
“Well, the last flight is coming in soon. We’ll go see if he’s on it. If he’s not, then he’s not coming back here today at all.”
Chris didn’t look too happy about that, but he didn’t say a word. He followed us out the door and down the road, past the Grand Hotel and down the hill toward town. The clouds were coming in thick and filling every corner of the sky, casting everything in a strange, muted light. We caught another horse-drawn carriage on Huron Street. This time there were no other passengers. We went back up to the airport, passing through the long white tunnel of trees, the air feeling colder by the minute. Chris was hunched over in his seat like a kid on his way to the principal’s office. We got there just in time to see the plane landing. I watched each passenger getting off-a young couple who stepped off looking up at the sky like maybe this whole trip had been a mistake. An older man behind them. Another man, young and big, about Marty’s size-my heart raced for one second until I saw it wasn’t him. There were no Grants getting off this plane.
We got on with a few other people, all of us getting off the island on the last flight before the snow came. We touched down in St. Ignace, got into Leon’s car with Chris folded up in the tiny backseat. He wrapped his coat tight around his body.
“Are you taking me home?” he finally said.
“I thought you might want to tell your story to the police,” I said.
“That actually sounds better than telling it to my parents right now.”
“Okay, then. Just sit tight for a while.”
“I lost him once before,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I lost my grandfather on the island, a couple of summers ago. I was supposed to be watching him and he wandered down the hill. They found him on one of the ferries.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So my father just about killed me. I mean, he really beat the hell out of me.”
“You’re in college, Chris. Learn how to take care of yourself. Or go to the police.”
“I know, I’m just saying… I shouldn’t have lied about it this time.”
“You’re right,” I said. It was another lie to think about as we drove the fifty miles back to Sault Ste. Marie. The snow hadn’t started yet. It felt like it was waiting to gather its full strength before hitting us again. All the while I kept looking out the window at the endless line of snowbanks as they whizzed by us. A long trail of white leading nowhere, with no answers at the end. The sun went down, and with it most of my hopes. It would be the second night with no way to find her.
We rolled into the Soo and headed straight across town to the City County Building. Leon parked in the back lot. Chris pried himself out of the backseat and stood rubbing his legs. I put a hand on his back and pointed him toward the door. He walked in with us and stood there with his arms folded while I told the receptionist we needed to see Chief Maven right away. That’s when it all went to hell fast. Maven came out of his office and down the hall, moving like a lineman rushing a quarterback. Behind him was one of his officers.
“McKnight!” he said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m sure you remember Chris Woolsey,” I said. “He has a few things to tell you.”
“Of course I remember,” he said as he turned to Chris, his voice losing about half of its venom. “Please go with Officer Donovan. He’ll talk to you.”
Chris gave us one last look and went with the officer. Maven watched him leave. When he was gone, Maven turned and stepped in about six inches from my face.
“There was a state trooper over at the Woolseys’ house,” he said. “He says you two clowns showed up there today. What the hell were you doing?”
“You know what I was doing.”
Maven stepped away from me. He took his chief’s hat off, ran his fingers through what was left of his hair, looked at Leon for a moment, then at me. “I’m not going to say anything else, McKnight. I give up. You and your chauffeur need to go see Sergeant Moreland right away.”
“Why?” I said. I felt a sick chill in my stomach. Please, don’t let it be Natalie. “What happened, chief?”
“They found your truck,” he said, “with Michael Grant inside.”
The way he said it, I didn’t even have to ask. But Maven answered anyway.
“He buried the truck in a snowbank,” he said. “Then he bled to death.”
Chapter Eighteen
We crossed the bridge and found the police station. Staff Sergeant Moreland was standing at the door with his head outside, looking up at the snow. When he saw us coming, he held the door open without saying a word. He pointed down the hallway.
“In here,” he said, directing us to an interview room. The bright fluorescent lights hurt my eyes. “I was just watching the snow come down. It’s hard to believe there’s any left up there.”
I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to put us at ease with the small talk. He let Leon sit down next to me. Right away that told me something. If he wanted to put us through the ringer, he’d do us each separately.
“You would be Mr. Leon Prudell,” Moreland said, extending his hand. “Chief Maven tells me you were Alex’s old partner, back when he was a private eye.”
“Very briefly, sir.”
“I saw Alex just this morning,” he said. “I didn’t imagine I’d have the pleasure again so soon.”
“We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Leon said.
“That’s good to hear. As you know by now, we found Michael Grant. He ran off the road into a ditch. It didn’t take long for the snow to cover him. When the plow came by, it buried him completely. Somebody else ran off the road in the same spot this evening, bumped right into him. If that hadn’t happened, God knows when we would have found him.”
“Where was he found?” I said. I couldn’t help thinking about the whole family gathered at the Woolseys’ house.
“Just west of Iron Bridge.”
“He didn’t make it very far then.”
“I’m surprised he could drive at all,” Moreland said. “He basically had no left hand anymore. He had tried to wrap it up with an old rag.”
I could picture that rag in my mind. It was tucked into a pocket on the driver’s side door. Last time I used it was to check my oil.
“There were deep lacerations in his face and shoulders, too,” Moreland said. “He must have been losing a lot of blood, even with the low temperature.”
“Sounds like he never had a chance,” Leon said. “That shotgun ripped him apart.”
“We recovered your cell phone as well,” Moreland said. “It looks like he tried to call for help. There’s no record of the call ever going through.”