They took the flashlights. Although the moon was bright, the rutted lane was shaded by overhanging tree branches. The leaves had not yet begun to fall. As they walked, all was quiet except for the whine of tires on Chipmunk Road behind them – and the occasional scurrying of a small animal in the underbrush. At the northeast corner of the fenced site the lane turned south and became even more primitive.
Lenny said in a hushed voice, “Boze and I used to play around here when we were kids. We knew how to get over the barbed wire without skinning a knee and how to pry a board loose from the shafthouse.”
“You mean you went inside that dilapidated wreck?”
“Crazy, wasn’t it? It was spooky inside – all scaffolding and ladders. We could hear the water sloshing in the mineshaft a zillion feet below. There’s a subterranean lake down there.”
“How do you know?”
“Everybody says so. All I know is, we threw pebbles down and heard them splash. We’d climb to the top platform with a pocketful of pebbles and sit there and eat a candy bar.”
“Didn’t you realize how dangerous it was? Those timbers are more than a century old.”
“Yeah, but fourteen inches square and put together with handmade spikes a foot long! We climbed around like monkeys. We were only nine years old. Our only fear was that Mom would find out. Once we were dumb enough to try smoking on the top platform. Boze had stolen a cigarette somewhere, and I had book matches. We lit it all right, but it didn’t taste as good as a candy bar. We dropped it down the shaft and heard it fizzle out in the water – or imagined we did. That was one of our finer moments.”
“I’ll bet,” Qwilleran said, thinking what a sheltered life he and Arch had lived in Chicago.
“Sh-h-h!” Lenny flashed his light on the ground. “He’s here! There’s a gum-wrapper!” A scrap of foil caught the light.
Qwilleran’s moustache twitched as he remembered Koko’s obsession with the bit of foil under the rug.
“Look, Mr. Q! Here’s where he built a campfire!” There was a charred circle on the ground and some small bones. “He cooked a rabbit! I’ll bet he’s saving the skins to make a blanket!”
Qwilleran looked around uneasily. He felt they were being watched through a knothole in old boards. He could see a pinpoint of light inside. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.
But Lenny began to shout. “Boze! It’s Lenny! Are you all right? We came to help you!”
There was no answer.
“I know he’s in there,” Lenny whispered. “I can see pinpoints of light. Flashlight. Or lantern.”
“This is insane!” Qwilleran hissed.
Lenny shouted again. “Boze! Everything’s gonna be all right! Mr. Q’s here! He’s gonna help you!”
All was quiet again, and then they heard a gunshot from the tower. Qwilleran grabbed Lenny’s upper arm roughly and propelled him back along the primitive road.
There was another shot… then sounds of thumping and crashing and splintering of old wood… a splash… and silence again.
Breathless and wordless, they hurried along the dirt lane leading to the highway. In the van Qwilleran phoned 911 and backed the vehicle out to the shoulder of Chipmunk Road. They waited, with headlights beamed on the shafthouse. Lenny sat quietly, shivering.
“Need a sweater?” Qwilleran asked. “There’s one on the back seat…. When the police come, let me do the talking.”
One by one the emergency vehicles appeared: the sheriff’s patrol car, an ambulance, the Pickax police, the rescue squad. Qwilleran’s presence lent credibility and seriousness to the incident. Not only did he have a press card; he was Mr. Q. As he reported it, they had been driving past and saw flickers of light in the tower – barely visible in the chinks between the weathered boards. They drove into the lane for a closer look, heard gunshots, and backed out in a hurry.
Leaving the scene and heading back to Pickax, he said to his passenger, “Do you want to be dropped at Lois’s house? How will you reach your truck in the morning? Is there anything I can do? Let me give you some money for gas, Better not give Lois any of the details.”
Lenny was in a fog. He just wanted to go home. He had lost a brother. He felt guilty His intentions had been good. He should have stayed in Duluth. He should have left everything to fate. He was jinxed.
Qwilleran listened sympathetically, murmuring remonstrance, encouragement, condolences – whatever was needed.
Seventeen
Tuesday, September 22 – ‘Can a leopard change his spots?’
