A month before his wedding, David Fowler drove to the North Shore of Lake Superior to find the perfect spot to dispose of his soon to be wife. There had to be some place up there that would work. It was just a matter of finding exactly the right spot.
When Diana accepted his proposal two days ago, she had immediately announced that she wanted to spend their honeymoon at the famous Storm Point Lodge so they could hike and enjoy the great outdoors.
“I’ve always wanted to explore every one of the state parks,” she had gushed. “Wouldn’t it be fun to do that on our honeymoon? It’d be so romantic. Really give us time to talk and be together.”
Fowler thought it sounded revolting.
As he drove, Fowler shuddered at the thought of all the hiking she wanted to do. What she didn’t know (and Fowler had conveniently forgotten to mention), was that he hated hiking and loathed the great outdoors. As far as he was concerned, people who enjoyed climbing over big piles of rocks and getting eaten alive by giant mosquitoes were certifiable. Good god, why on earth would anyone go through all that, plus get sweaty and exhaust themselves into a puddle when they could sit by a nice clean pool or have a civilized drink in air-conditioned comfort? Not to mention the black flies, army worms and a whole host of charming creatures that bit, stung or otherwise proved that there truly was a hell.
Needless to say, he never passed those sentiments onto Diana. Not when it might mean she’d change her mind about getting married. And especially not with millions of dollars at stake.
What he was looking forward to was all the possibilities the location provided. Not only for getting rid of her. But also for getting his hands on her bank account quickly and easily. It was the opportunity he’d been looking for most of his life. Even better, it was her idea in the first place.
It took him three hours to get to Duluth and then another hour on the narrow highway that ran next to Lake Superior all the way up to the Canadian border. Not far from the Storm Point Lodge, he found a cheap motel at a wide spot in the road where he used one of his fake ID’s.
Using an alias probably wasn’t necessary. The motel had clearly once been one of those stay-every-year kind of places where everyone knew everyone else and everyone came the same time each year like a frickin’ high school reunion. But that was clearly in the long-forgotten past. Now it was little more than a run-down hole catering to the just-passing-through crowd who only wanted a few hours of sleep at the lowest possible price. After all, who the hell would stay at a place with a name like the Bide-A-Wee Motel, he thought with more than a little disgust as he drove into the parking lot.
Fowler took one look at the guy who ran the place and knew he could have registered as Peter Pan for all the attention the guy gave him. He’d be willing to bet that the guy’s wife had taken off years ago for livelier places and better weather. In fact, Fowler wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the guy had stopped caring about who was staying here (or for how long) so far back that he likely couldn’t ever remember caring.
Still, using his real name could easily create a major problem, so he got out one of his little used IDs. When Fowler handed him the registration slip and his ID, though, the guy looked at him and grunted.
“You aren’t, by any chance, related to Ollie Bakken, are ya?” the guy asked.
Fowler was so surprised, he just stared at the clerk for a moment, then remembered he’d given the guy his ID for Ricky Bakken. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just a guess,” the guy said. “I’m a big hockey fan, ya know? We made it to the state tournament every year, but always got knocked out in the first round by Roseau, ya know? Saw Ollie play a couple of times, including that one-oh game against Johnson. Fact is, I saw him play his first season with the Stars when they were still here.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Fowler said. “Never thought I’d run into a fan of Ollie’s here after all these years.” And that was the truth. The butt end of nowhere and he had to run into someone who’d actually heard of Ollie Bakken.
“You play, too?” the guy asked now.
“Naw,” Fowler said. “Ollie got all the hockey genes in our family. Fact is, I can’t skate worth a damn.”
“Me neither. Only game I really wanted to play and couldn’t skate my way across the rink. Let alone get to the puck with a stick.” He pushed the room key across the counter. “Here you go. Just drive ’round back. Third one in.”
“Thanks.” Fowler took the key and returned to his car. As he opened the car door, he looked back at the motel office and saw the clerk just sitting there, looking into space. Fowler shook his head. Guy’s mind was probably already on whatever trash talk show was blatting mindlessly away in the next room and hoping he wasn’t going to miss any of the juicy details.
Better that, though, than thinking about any connection he might have to Ollie Bakken, Fowler thought. He hesitated, then drove around back where he could get away from the road noise. Not to mention staying invisible. Although the car was rented, it never hurt to be cautious. He knew people sometimes remembered the oddest things. He’d learned a long time ago that paying close attention to seemingly minor details would take him a long way.
* * *
The next day he set out early. The North Shore was littered with state parks, cliffs, trails and a plethora of places to hike. All of them provided accident opportunities, but he was looking for the one that would give him the best chance for success.
He started with the most popular parks. While the Enchantment River State Park was practically next door to the Storm Point Lodge, it wasn’t that popular as it offered the least amount of challenge for serious hikers. He figured his best chance would be at one of the more popular places, so he started with Gooseberry in the south and worked his way north. Tomorrow, if he hadn’t found what he was looking for, he’d start at Cascade in the north and worked his way south.
The locations he saw on the first day gave him several ideas on how to get rid of Diana. Most of them involved the huge cliffs rising up from the lake for miles, edges jagged and disjointed from eons of freeze and thaw. Had he been an art lover, he might have thought the cliffs were Braque paintings come to life. However, he was not an art lover. What he primarily saw was how simple it would be for Diana to fall off a cliff. How easy it would be to have an accident.
When he saw the cliffs at Tettegouche, he exulted. This place was fantastic. This place seemed to have been created for him.
Fowler laughed. He never would have guessed that he’d actually enjoy something about the North Shore. “Thank you, Diana,” he said mockingly as he drove back to the motel. Guess she was good for something besides her bank account after all.
On the second day, he went back out even though every muscle in his body protested. He decided that if he didn’t find what he was looking for today, he’d call it quits and go with the obvious. Having Diana fall off a cliff had its drawbacks, but he knew he could make it work if that was his only choice. However, as there were still a few unexplored locations, he figured he’d check them all out and then decide.
At first, he found pretty much more of the same. Lots of cliffs. Lots of places to fall or something equally prosaic. And then, late in the afternoon, he stopped at the Enchantment River State Park. At this point he wasn’t really in the mood. His feet ached, his back was killing him and dreams of Chivas in a tumbler crowded out just about everything. But he’d seen an intriguing note in one of the brochures he’d picked up, so he made the sacrifice and pulled in.
And there he found exactly what he was looking for.
The Devil’s Cauldron.
It was even better than he expected or could have come up with on his own. It was beyond perfect. Fowler stood at the edge for a long time and knew that this was going to be the most spectacular con he had ever run.
© 2010
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