Once Upon a River Page 0,84

a homemade camping trailer the size of the smaller of the Slocum trailers. It was surrounded by a low metal fence, and she saw there inside the fence two five-gallon plastic buckets. The overgrown yard contained a half a dozen concrete lawn ornaments. There was a twelve-foot length of wooden dock that ran parallel to shore and extended five feet over the water. Tied to it was an aluminum rowboat with an outboard motor on the back, sheathed in plastic. Margo felt comforted by the modesty of the house and the rustic surroundings.

An empty wheelchair sat on the flagstone patio in back of the house. The property was separated from the one beyond it by a wooden privacy fence, and over it Margo could see the top of a newer cedar-shingled house. There was a kind of freedom in knowing nobody would recognize her here. She was only about forty-five miles downstream of Murrayville, but she’d never known the Murrays to come beyond the dam or to travel to Kalamazoo for any reason. She didn’t see anyone around and so walked onto the backyard patio and followed the steep steps down to the river. From here, she could see the back of the camper, where PRIDE & JOY was written in stylized block letters. The camper, it turned out, was not sitting on the riverbank, but was affixed to a sort of platform on pontoons in the water. The camper was the cabin of a boat that had been dragged up against the retaining wall. A big black dog lay beside the camper. The dog’s ears lifted as she approached. She stepped off the retaining wall and onto the boat through an opening in the galvanized metal fence. It barely moved under her weight. The buckets were on the other side of the dog.

“Hey, dog,” she said and barked. The dog nodded his head. “You must weigh at least a hundred pounds.”

“Is somebody out there?” a weak voice called.

Margo peered inside the camper through a curtained window. Inside was a miniature sink, a set of small cupboards, a tiny woodstove. And then a ghostly pale face, half covered by sunglasses, appeared before her. She yelped, and the dog yelped, too.

“Pull open the door. I’m stuck in here.”

Margo twisted the aluminum door handle until it came unstuck and found an old man with a thick hank of silver hair leaning against the doorframe. “I was just petting your dog,” she said.

“Long as he’s not drinking out of the river.”

“Why do you care if he drinks out of the river?”

“It’s polluted.”

“Do you live in this trailer?” Margo looked out at the houses upstream and across the river, all three of them tidy, two with small boats up on sawhorses. At the nearest house, an upside-down canoe was chained to an oak. The chain holding the canoe appeared to have grown into the tree’s bark.

“Help me up to the patio,” the old man said. Margo switched her rifle to her right side and let him drape his bony arm over her shoulder. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and thin, but he grew heavy as they traveled up the concrete-block steps, the dog at their heels. Margo helped him into his wheelchair. An air tank was hooked to the back, and the old man affixed plastic tubes to his face. He adjusted his black glasses. He took a few breaths, and then color came into his cheeks.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Okay?” He took another labored breath. “You mean, except that I’m dying? Hell, no, I’m not okay. Can’t even get up the damned steps.”

“Never seen a boat like that,” Margo said, “with a camper on it.”

“Life is a lousy goddamned business at this end. You take note, kid.”

“Is your wife here?” Margo asked. “Should I get her?”

“Got no wife. Dog’s better company than any wife.”

From where she stood, Margo thought she could see a raccoon skin drying over the back of a lawn chair outside the garage. Behind it a deerskin was stretched on a pallet on the ground.

“That’s Fishbone’s deer hide.”

“But it’s out of season.”

“He’s got the crop-damage permit from the farmer.”

“A permit that lets you hunt out of season?” Margo asked.

“Lucky son of a bitch got himself a deer. Nowadays Fishbone usually can’t hit the broad side of a barn. He won’t admit he’s getting old.”

“Who’s Fishbone?” she asked.

“Fishbone is the man who needs to get here with my smokes.” He nodded at the little aluminum