Page 31

The next morning—a Monday, so the store was closed—I loaded my tethered remote-control underwater camera into the car, along with a backpack of food and drink for both me and Newt.

We caught the first ferry of the day to Washington Island, and I drove us to Sadie and T.J.’s rental shop.

Sadie was with another customer when I arrived, and she made a point of looking past me as if we’d never talked, so I did my business with T.J.

I arranged to rent some fishing gear and a sixteen-foot outboard motorboat with a higher-end fish-finder.

I also bought a navigation map that showed approximate water depths and the locations of all the known wrecks and other water hazards.

T.J. gave me a quick lesson on how to use and read the fish-finder, and then said that Sadie would provide me with a lesson on the boat’s engine and handling. I showed my boating-safety certification card, signed a waiver, and forked over a hefty deposit on my credit card.

“Next time, call ahead with what you want so we can have it waiting for you,”

T.J.

advised me with a hint of a scowl.

“I’ll be sure to do that,”

I said with a smile.

If that was the way he treated all of his customers, he’d be out of business soon.

After fetching both my and Newt’s flotation vests from the car and putting them on, we headed down to the boathouse behind the store.

By the time Sadie came down with the key, I’d studied the map carefully, marking several spots that might be near where Oliver had found that gold coin.

I left the map open when Sadie arrived, and while ostensibly giving me an orientation to the boat, she pointed to the precise spot where she’d anchored when she last saw Oliver.

“Good luck,”

she said.

“This boat is easy to manage, and her draft is only two feet.

Just turn the key and she should start right up.

As long as you don’t drive it up onto a shore, you should be fine.

And FYI, you can take a snapshot of the screen on the fish-finder if you want, in case you see anything interesting.

Just use this button and it will save it to the SD card. Watch out for the wrecks and shallows.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Moments later I motored out along the western coast of Rock Island into the Rock Island Passage.

It was a beautiful day, without a cloud in the sky, and the weather report predicted more of the same through tomorrow.

The waters were calm, and the fish-finder didn’t have any problems visualizing things, identifying several schools of fish that swam beneath us and providing a clear view of the lake bed as it rose and fell.

I got excited at one point by a big blip on the screen until I realized the device was simply reading a large, closely packed school of fish as one big creature.

When I reached the general area Sadie had indicated to me, I turned off the engine, closed my eyes, and leaned back in my seat for a minute, letting the sunlight warm my face and shoulders.

Then I sat up, consulted my navigation chart, and checked my surroundings.

I was close to the state border between Michigan and Wisconsin that ran through Rock Island Passage, close enough that I couldn’t be sure which state I was officially in.

Off in the distance to the north, I could see St.

Martin Island, and between me and it, there was a hardworking tugboat pulling three barges through the waters, a slow-moving nautical train.

It reminded me of the tragic story behind the SS Plymouth and I hoped it wasn’t an omen.

To the south was the northwestern tip of Rock Island, a rocky bluff with a craggy, uneven face that hinted of hidden caves and crashing waves.

The bluff rose well over a hundred feet from a beach of large rounded stones, most of them bigger than a fist.

Above the bluff, peeking out above the tree line, I could see the light tower of the old Pottawatomie Lighthouse—first operated in 1836, making it the oldest lighthouse in Wisconsin and on Lake Michigan—and the much plainer, newer light—little more than a metal tower—that stood close by.

While it undoubtedly did the job, I hated the newer lighthouse, which wasn’t a house at all.

I mourned the loss of older lighthouses like Pottawatomie.

There was something magical and romantic about them.

As I prepared my underwater camera, Newt peered over the edge, staring into the water, cocking his head from one side to the other, his ears pricking every so often when a rogue wave broke over the bow.

According to the readout on my fish-finder, the water here was just over one hundred feet deep.

While I didn’t know what kind of PADI certifications Oliver might have had, I’d done the classes and had a basic certification.

One hundred feet was considered the safe limit for most dives.

Had he gone beyond that to find his gold coin?

Once I had the camera ready, I lowered it into the water, and watching the screen on the remote control, I began a slow reconnaissance of the area, moving back and forth in a gridlike pattern.

I saw some fish, though nothing overly large, and after half an hour or so, I brought the camera in, started the engine, and slowly paralleled Rock Island’s coast to the east while simultaneously edging a little closer to St.

Martin.

I knew from my navigation chart that the lake bottom rose off the southern tip of St.

Martin, where the rocky shoals that surrounded the island extended south for a couple of miles like a clawing finger.

I was puttering along about two miles out from Rock Island, watching the water depth change dramatically, once going from 128 feet to thirteen in a matter of seconds.

I was close to the spot where Marty and I had been last week, so I turned the engine off and let the boat slowly drift while I again prepped the underwater camera.

I kept a wary eye on my depth reading, which ranged between thirty and eighty feet.

I was about to launch the camera when Newt began sniffing the air and growling.

He peered over the side of the boat into the water—though what he could have seen with those nearly blind eyes of his was beyond me—and growled again.

Then he suddenly turned and hurried over to me, shoving his head into my lap, clearly anxious.

I stroked him and told him it was okay. Then I slipped out of my seat and went over to where he’d been peering into the water to look for myself. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but the fish-finder began beeping loud and long, an indication of something big down there. I glanced at the image on the screen and froze, fear and excitement racing through me. The shape of the image moving across the screen was much too large to be any ordinary fish one might find in these waters. It had a large round body and extending out from either end was a long appendage . . . like a plesiosaur’s neck and tail.

The water around me began to roil and churn, creating waves that rocked the boat.

The image on the fish-finder screen appeared to be directly beneath me and I hit the button to save a screenshot.

When I looked over the side again, I was startled to see two greenish yellow eyes, the same ones I’d seen when I was out with Marty, rising toward me at a frightening speed.

I made a mad, drunken dash back to my seat, turned the key to start the engine, and cursed as it coughed and belched.

It caught just as something hit the bottom of the boat hard.

The boat tipped sharply to the right, and before I could grab anything, I was flung over the side and into the chilly waters. The shock made me gasp and I sucked in a mouthful of lake water. Then my head smashed into something hard. The water around me filled with bright little stars for a second and then everything went dark.

* * *

? ? ?

I slowly became aware of my body moving through water.

I felt lighter than normal, buoyant, but also chilled to the bone.

Something pulled and chafed at my neck and armpits, and above my head, I could hear heavy breathing and grunting.

Sunlight made the insides of my eyelids look red, and when I opened them, the bright light was blinding.

I tried to roll over, but something got in my way.

Turning my head to the side, I saw Newt with the loose end of the strap from my flotation vest caught firmly between his teeth. He was swimming for all he was worth, dragging me with him.

I reached over and patted him on his back.

“I’m okay, Newt. Let go.”

He did so and I was able to roll over and start treading water.

I saw the cliffs of Rock Island off in the distance one way, and the low profile of St.

Martin Island much farther in the distance the other way.

I didn’t see the boat at all.

Easy choice.

“Okay, buddy,”

I said to Newt, who was paddling about in a small circle near me.

“It’s just another morning swim, albeit in colder water. Okay?”

He must have understood because he turned and headed for Rock Island.

I did the same, head down, stroke after stroke, looking every so often to make sure he was with me and to check on my progress.

As often happens with distance swims like that, it seemed as if I were swimming in place and the cliffs of Rock Island refused to get closer.

But eventually the cliffs loomed higher, their details became more visible, and I knew I was making progress.

When I finally felt my kicking feet brush the bottom, I gave it a few more strokes and then stopped, turning to sit in about two feet of water atop a bottom covered with large stones.

Newt, panting hard, was able to stand next to me, the water lapping at the bottom of his stomach. After a moment, he whined at me.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,”

I said, forcing myself into a standing position.

It wasn’t easy.

The stones beneath my feet shifted and rolled, making each step a wobbly one, my head throbbed, and the trees jutting out of the craggy stone bluff I saw ten feet in front of me swam crazily.

Drizzles of red water sluiced down over my right eye and there was a distinctive stinging sensation about a handbreadth above my right ear.

I reached up and felt my scalp, discovering a gash about three inches long.

I closed my eyes for a second but that just made things swim even more inside my head, so I quickly reopened them and checked Newt to make sure he was okay.

He wagged his tail excitedly as I ran my hands over his head and body, removing the flotation vest to make sure there were no injuries hiding beneath it.

Once I was sure he was okay, I put the vest back on him and patted him on the head.

“You did good, boy.

Really good. Thanks.”

Tongue lolling, Newt wagged his tail even harder, flinging water drops every which way, his entire butt moving from side to side in a delighted doggy dance.

I remembered being tossed out of the boat a second after I got the engine started, but as I scanned the water, I couldn’t see any vessels out there at all, not even the tug train I’d seen earlier.

I wondered if my boat had motored off somewhere or sunk.

Either way, I figured I’d be making an unplanned, hefty payment to T.J.

and Sadie’s store in the not-too-distant future.

Shifting my focus to land, I looked around, unsure where on the island we were.

My parents had brought me to Rock Island to camp in a tent for a week when I was about ten, but I hadn’t been back since.

Realizing that I should have paid more attention to the island part of the map earlier, I debated which way to go.

The thought Right is wrong popped into my head, though I had no idea where it came from.

Despite that, I decided to heed it, turn left, and head clockwise around the island.

“Let’s start walking,”

I said to Newt.

I took a few tentative steps, the stones beneath my feet rolling precariously.

Bloody water continued to run into my eye but, aside from swiping it away, there was little I could do about it.

At least the wound was oozing rather than gushing or squirting.

I’d be okay, assuming my whack on the head hadn’t caused something more severe, like a brain bleed, but I did feel a little woozy and that worried me.

Newt and I trudged along for a while, him in the lead.

We navigated driftwood and downed trees, sheer cliff faces and thick tree lines that forced us to wade back out into the cold water at times to get around them, and an endless supply of those lovely but damnable rounded stones, which threatened to make me turn an ankle with nearly every step.

After we walked for about half an hour, the landscape changed from rocky cliffs to a mix of rock and dirt with tree-lined slopes.

I heard distant laughter coming from somewhere above us, beyond the thick growth of trees.

Buoyed by that, I stepped up my stride, and after I rounded a tiny jut of land, my heart leapt at the sight of a beach with a stretch of sand between the water’s edge and the rock-strewn high-water mark.

I knew where I was.

Sensing my improved mood, Newt ran about, sniffing at deadwood and a rotting fish carcass, wading out into the shallows, and rolling in the sand.

After walking the length of the sandy beach, we were forced up onto a trail when the trees once again blocked our passage and we passed signs pointing to campsites.

Minutes later we entered a wide-open area with several structures: a stone wall, picnic tables, a pagoda, a boathouse, and, best of all .

.

. a toilet!

After beelining for the toilet and ignoring wide-eyed stares from the few people we passed along the way, I made my way toward what was known as the Viking Boathouse, a testament to Icelandic immigrant Chester Thordarson—a wealthy inventor and electrical engineer who had once owned the island and used it as a vacation retreat—and his fascination with things old and mythical.

The boathouse had a lower level with two huge stone arches rising out of the water, each one big enough to allow a large yacht through.

The upper level, a museum, contained numerous artifacts and pieces of historical interest, many with a Nordic connection.

The most important fact about the boathouse for me was that it marked the landing for the ferry to Washington Island.

I found a docent by the door to the boathouse’s main level and asked if I might impose upon her to make a call for me to Chief Jon Flanders on Washington Island to let him know I was there and needed help.

The help part must have been obvious given the bloodstains on my face and shirt, not to mention the gaping wound on my head.

She made the call without hesitation, contacting the police station on Washington Island and eventually getting transferred to Jon, eyeing me warily the entire time.

She switched the call to speaker—I’m guessing she didn’t want me handling her phone with my bloody hands—and I explained to Jon what had happened and that Newt and I were going to need passage on the ferry to Washington Island.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going back out?”

Jon chastised me after I finished my tale.

Feeling cross and tired, I said, “We can discuss that later.

Right now this nice lady would probably like to have her phone back so she can continue with her job, and I think I might need some stitches in my scalp.

Can you help me or not?”

That last came out harsher than I’d intended, but after a pause, Jon said, “Of course.

I’ll let the captain know to give you passage and I’ll meet you at the landing on my side.”

With that, the call ended, and the docent gave me an uh-oh look, her eyebrows raised.

“Thanks for your help,”

I told her, and then Newt and I left to go await the arrival of the next ferry.

We walked down a jetty and I sat atop a concrete pony wall that separated the pier area from yet another rock-covered beach, Newt at my feet.

I had no idea when the next ferry would arrive or even what time it was, though judging from the location of the sun overhead, I guessed it was early afternoon.

My head ached something fierce, and as I replayed the events of the day in my mind, the pain worsened—painful memories in the most literal sense.

At one point I closed my eyes and massaged the bridge of my nose.

The image of those eyes rushing up through the water flashed through my brain, a dizzyingly frightful memory.

I opened my eyes and had to brace myself to keep from falling off the wall.

My heart pounded erratically inside my chest and Newt whimpered at my feet, sensing something was wrong.

I took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and reached down to give Newt a reassuring pat on the head.

Had those glowing eyes been the last thing Marty had seen? Even as this question came to me, I realized that it meant accepting the idea that Marty was dead.

It left a heaviness in my heart that made me even more determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

A small crowd began to assemble on the jetty, some standing around, others sitting or leaning against the wall like me.

I took that as a sign that the ferry would be coming soon, and I kept glancing out over the water toward Washington Island—easily visible from here—hoping to catch sight of it.

Most of the other people eyed me and Newt with guarded surreptitious looks, though others stared at us outright.

I could only imagine what they thought when they saw my dried blood, head wound, and still-damp clothing.

One man eyed me with disgust and made a comment about how dogs were supposed to be leashed and I should be ticketed for letting my “beast”

run free.

Given that Newt was sitting by the wall right next to me and hadn’t moved, I thought his comment rude and unfounded.

“You’re right, sir,”

I said with a tired smile.

“I was in a boat that capsized, and my dog and I washed up on shore here a bit ago, but if you could go fetch his leash from the bottom of the lake, I’d sure appreciate it.”

A woman leaning against the wall on the opposite side of Newt snorted a laugh.

The man shot me an angry look as red crept up his neck and onto his face.

With a harrumph he spun around and stormed out onto the far end of the pier.

I envisioned going over there and pushing him into the water, and imagining the act made me feel a little better.

If I’m honest, following through with the act would have left me feeling a lot better, at least for a short while, though the long-term consequences might not have been so great.

I felt the stare of the woman who had laughed and looked over at her.

She was slender and fit-looking, well tanned, dressed in hiking shorts and boots with a backpack at her feet.

I pegged her as in her mid- to late forties.

“Were you really in a boat that sank?”

she asked.

“I’m not sure if it sank,”

I told her.

“We got thrown overboard when something from below hit us.

The engine was running at the time, so who knows what happened to the boat? All I know is that Newt and I ended up on the other side of the island here.”

“Your dog got thrown overboard, too?”

I nodded.

“You have a nasty cut on your head,”

she said, eyeing my scalp with a grimace.

“I know.”

I reached up reflexively and touched the area.

“I was knocked out.

When I came to, Newt was pulling me through the water.”

“What a good boy!”

she said in a typical pet-speak tone of voice.

Newt wagged his tail, tongue lolling.

She bent down and picked up her backpack.

After unzipping a section and rummaging around, she said, “Are you hungry?”

and offered me a granola bar.

“Oh, my gosh, yes, thank you!”

I said, taking the bar.

“I have some beef jerky in here.

Can I give some to your hero dog?”

“That would be very kind.

Thank you.”

She took out a piece of beef jerky and held it aloft, a pensive expression on her face.

“Go easy, Newt,” I said.

She lowered the jerky toward him, looking tense and ready to snatch her hand back at a moment’s notice.

Newt sniffed the jerky and then gently took it from her, his upper lip twitching with the effort.

“Wow, he’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

the woman said.

“Yes, he is.”

“If you need a ride when we get to Washington Island, I’d be happy to take you somewhere.”

“Thank you very much but not necessary,”

I said, genuinely touched by her concern and generosity.

“You’ve been so kind already and I think I’ve got someone meeting me.”

“I’ll hang a bit until you’re sure,” she said.

As we waited for the ferry, I chatted some more with my kind benefactor.

I learned that her name was Jeanette Terwilliger, that she lived in Green Bay, that she’d just lost her husband to cancer, and that her only child, a son, had planned to go to college next year but had to postpone because of money concerns related to the cost of her husband’s medical care and a lack of insurance.

“Caleb had his heart set on Northwestern,”

Jeanette said of her son.

“But he didn’t get any of the scholarships he applied for and I just can’t swing it right now.

I tried to convince him to go to the local community college for a couple of years and then reevaluate things, but he said he wants to take some time to gain some life experience.”

She flashed me a meager smile and scoffed.

“As if I’d believe that.

I know he’s staying to try to help me get back on my feet financially.”

“He sounds like a good son.”

“He is.”

She smiled again and that one looked a little more genuine.

“Do you have kids?”

I shook my head.

“Caleb is my one and only, and I’m dreading when he’s gone but I want him to live his own life.

He’s off for two weeks with a friend who has a small camper.

They’re driving out to Yellowstone and back, so at least he’s getting in a little fun this summer.”

She paused, sighing.

“The house felt awfully lonely, so I came up here to hike the island.

It always restores me.”

By the time I parted company with Jeanette Terwilliger on the Washington Island side of the ferry route, I knew enough about her to know that Devon would be able to find her.

And when he did, I would repay her kindness to me and Newt with an anonymous scholarship for her son and a payoff of her husband’s medical bills.

My father raised me with the belief that people who have a lot of money should try to do good with it, and it was a credo he lived by.

I try to honor his memory by doing the same.