We went out later that night looking for the fairies, but they weren’t singing. The woods were empty. After 20 minutes of sitting under the stars we went back.
The next morning after breakfast I found the lake using Google Maps. “It’s called Turtle Lake, and, yeah, it’s not very big.” I pointed to the laptop screen. “It’s pretty close.”
Rachel finished her coffee. “Okay, let’s go. Then I want to go play mini-golf again.”
“Deal.”
Our cabin was about a mile down a long meandering road from the main two-lane highway to town. It was a nice day for a walk, a warm yellow sun in a sky with a handful of fluffy clouds. Rachel wore shorts. No cars passed us going up the road.
One car sailed past us as we strolled up the two-lane highway after crossing. Finally we found a trail and hiked through the underbrush and trees for another mile. We were hot and sweaty by the time we reached the lake.
Powell had been right. It was basically a large pond, about a hundred yards across but maybe 300 feet long. The water was muddy and cold. A breeze stirred the reeds sticking up from the surface near the shore.
I swirled the water with my fingers, then looked up at Rachel. “Anything?”
She was peering over to the trees on the opposite shore. She shook her head, then bent down to untie her shoes. “Give me a second.”
Socks off, she grimaced and slowly stuck a tentative toe into the water. There wasn’t any sand—she had one foot on grass and the other foot in the pond. With a grimace, she stepped in with both feet and waded into the water.
“It’s cold.” She shivered. She stood in the mud, first looking down, then gazing toward the center of the pond, her eyes unfocused. I waited. “There’s something here.”
“Turtles?”
She swirled one foot around in a watery circle, kicking up mud. “It’s old. And restless. It’s sleepy now, but it—” She jerked her foot up.
“What?”
Rachel planted both feet down firmly in the muck again. “I think it feels something.”
Then I spotted movement. Thirty yards away, a young man in a windbreaker and jeans was standing at the edge of the water. In his 20s, he was holding an iPad, maybe taking pictures of the area, but he was staring at Rachel and me. Mostly Rachel. I’m used to that, especially when she’s wearing shorts. At least he wasn’t pointing his iPad at her.
I waved. “Hi there.”
The man waved back. He wasn’t going to talk to us, so I headed over toward him as Rachel made her way out of the water. “I’m Tom.”
“Uh, I’m Ryan. You guys from around here?” He lowered his iPad nervously.
“We’re here for our honeymoon. That’s my girlfr—I mean, my wife, Rachel.” I smiled. “You with Varner Sutton?”
He blinked. “Uh, yeah. Just—checking out various locations. For when we’re ready to start construction.”
I nodded. “Is it looking like it’s going to happen?”
“Oh, it’ll happen.” He was a little more confident now. “There’s a majority on the city council. It’s going to go forward.”
“Really? There was a lot of opposition at the town meeting last night.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t really matter, as long as the council—” He stopped, nervous again. “It’ll get done. Well, I’ve got what I need. Nice meeting you. And your wife.” He waved to Rachel.
“Yeah, after that guy the other night, you probably don’t want to stay out here too long.” I hoped I didn’t sound like I was threatening him. I just wanted to see his reaction.
Ryan looked over his shoulder, as if whatever had attacked Swenson was watching. “Y-yeah. I don’t believe the stories.”
“What stories?”
He flinched, as if he’d made a mistake. “N-nothing. Just stories. I’ve got to go.” He turned and headed for the path to the road.
Rachel walked to my side, carrying her shoes and socks. “What’s up with him?”
“Varner Sutton guy. Scared. But he doesn’t believe the stories.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “What stories?”
I looked at the lake. “That’s what we have to find out.”
Sophia Broadtree lived alone in a small house on the edge of the town. She made us tea, and we sat in her living room, which had a large oil painting of Lake Huron on the wall, and a waist-high bookshelf crammed with hardcovers. No TV, but a radio on an end table.
She carried the tea from her kitchen on a tray balanced carefully on her lap as she pushed her wheelchair. Rachel and I sat together on an old but comfortable sofa.
Sophia looked us over, as if searching for something. “What can I tell you about—anything?”
“Turtle Lake,” I said.
She smiled. “It had a different name before. But there are turtles. I used to catch them down there when I was a little girl.”
“When I was wading in the lake,” Rachel said, “I felt something down there. It was—it wasn’t evil, exactly, but it was menacing. I think it was the same thing that chased us the other night.”
Sophia nodded. “The little friends used to be everywhere. That’s what I was taught, anyway. They had to hide when more and more people moved in, cutting down trees and building towns like this. They had to find a protector.”
“In the lake?” I asked.
“In the dark water. It’s not a fish or a giant turtle.” She chuckled. “It doesn’t touch the water. It just lies there, sleeping. Listening. It wakes when it’s disturbed, when it feels threatened. It hasn’t roused itself in a long time. Hasn’t needed to.”
“Can anything stop it?”
She shook her head. “Only the dawn. It lives in the dark. Nothing can pierce it there.”
“But it’s being threatened now. By this development.”
Sophia shrugged. “If the town lets it.”
“And more people will die? Like Maurice Swenson?”
She closed her eyes. “Maybe.”
“What happens to the—the little friends?” Rachel asked.
She sighed. “They’ll find another place to live. Not as many of them. They’re—diminished. Someday there won’t be any left.” Her eyes flickered between the two of us. “Someday there won’t be any of us left.”
Cheery thought, but I couldn’t blame her. “It sounds like they’ve got the town council all wrapped up. Even with a lot of the people opposed. It’s jobs.”
“Most of my family has moved away.” Sophia sipped some of her tea. “My daughter and her family stay to take care of me, but once I’m gone . . .” She shook her head. “Who can blame them? This town is dying.”
We finished out tea quietly. Finally Sophia said, “I’m sorry—you’re on your honeymoon. This should be a happy time for you.”
Rachel shrugged. “We’re not kids. We’ve seen a lot.”
“Well, I wish you happiness.” She smiled. “The world can be a hard place, wherever you are. Find happiness where you can.”
Out in the car Rachel crossed her arms. “Can we do anything?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t start the engine. “I’d hate to see the fairies—the little friends—wiped out. And more people die. But we’re outsiders. Would anyone listen to a couple of honeymooners from Chicago?”
“Yeah, probably not.” She put on her sunglasses. “You want to go play mini-golf?”
“Sure.” I started the car. “Unless . . .”
She looked over. “What?”
“The city council. That guy Ryan made it sound like they’re already in the company’s pocket. What if Varner Sutton is paying them off?”
“Can you find that out?”
“Well, I’m a detective.” I headed out the road.
“Really? All this time I thought you were an unemployed rodeo clown.” She nudged my ribs.
“That’s my fallback career.” I smiled. “Can mini-golf wait?”
“I suppose.” But she grinned. “You’re sexy when you get ideas.”
I grinned back. “Hold that thought.”
Three hours later I stood up and got a beer from the kitchen. Rachel looked up from the movie she’d been watching on her laptop. “Find anything, husband of mine?”
I turned my laptop to face her. “The resort project was formally announced at a town meeting two months ago, but there were rumors around the town at least a month before that. But six months ago the mayor formed a small private corporation with three members of the city council and bought a bunch of land just off the lakefront from right where the resort is planned. Here—” I showed her a Google Map of the area with the mayor’s newly acquired land outlined, and a map from Varner Sutton laying out the boundaries of the resort.
“Huh.” Rachel peered at the screen. “That’s not illegal, though. Is it?”
“No, but it does give them an interest in the plan going through, aside from their supposed responsibility for the well-being of the community. But wait, there’s more.”
She leaned forward. “Do tell.”
I switched images. “This councilwoman—her name’s Jane Beaumont—has pictures of her recent vacation at a resort in Florida.” I showed her pictures of a middle-aged woman enjoying cocktails, dancing, riding a Jet-ski, and more. “Guess which resort?”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose. “Varner Sutton?”
“No, it’s called Happy Daze.” I zeroed in on a logo on one of her cocktail napkins: HDI. “However, it’s actually a subsidiary of Varner Sutton. It’s a pretty pricey spot, too. Council members don’t make much salary, and she owns just a small antique shop in town.”
She nodded. “So what do we do? Wait for the next town meeting and leap up to point out fingers shouting, ‘J’accuse!’?”
I grinned. “There’s that. On the other hand, the town has a newspaper. It’s a small weekly, but the editorials have been pretty negative on the development, so they might be receptive. And the city 20 miles away has a daily that seems to like poking the bear. I’m thinking a few emails might rip the whole thing wide open.”
“And save the little friends.” Rachel smiled.
“And save anyone else from whatever’s living in the lake.”
“Yeah, that, too.” She stretched. “We going to have dinner soon?”
I closed the laptop. “I could eat. There’s an Italian place in the city we haven’t tried yet.”
“Sounds good. Maybe if we tell them it’s our honeymoon we’ll get free tiramisu.” Then she leaned over and put an arm around me. “I mean, in a while.”
I smiled and kissed her. “No rush.”
After, uh, working up an appetite, we drove up to the city. Before hitting the restaurant I stopped at the offices of the local newspaper. “You did this on purpose,” Rachel said as we took the elevator up to the editorial offices on the second floor.
“I might have had ulterior motives,” I admitted. “Saves us a trip in the morning.”
She sighed. “I’ll allow it. You owe me later, though.”
“Geez, I’m only one man. You have to give me time to—”
The elevator door opened before I could finish.
It was past 5:00, but the publisher was still in his office. He was a young man, in his 30s, but his hair was already going gray, and his glasses tended to slip down his nose. “Peter Cousins,” he said, shaking first my hand and then Rachel’s, as if visitors were a rare and welcome distraction from work. “What can I do for you?”
I told him first that we didn’t want our names attached to any story if he decided to publish it. He agreed, looking skeptical. Probably he expected us to report having seen UFOs or Bigfoot. But he paid attention when I went into what I’d found out about the mayor and the town council. I left out everything about the little friends, of course. He listened, nodding, and finally asked. “Can you back this up?”
“I can email what I’ve got to you tonight. You’ll want to confirm it yourself, of course. I used to be a reporter myself.”
Rachel nudged me. “He likes to remind people about that.”
Cousins laughed. “It doesn’t pay very well, but at least the hours are lousy, right?” Then he groaned softly. “Yeah. Send me what you’ve got. I hate to look like the big city guy beating up on a small town, but this kind of sounds like something they should know about. If it checks out, I’ll assign one of my people here.”
“Sounds good.” We stood up and shook hands again.
“Is that Italian place downtown any good?” Rachel asked him.
“Second-best in town,” Cousins told us. “I like the steakhouse myself.”
Rachel grimaced. She’s a vegetarian. “Thanks.”
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