Death Stalks Door County: A Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery

1. Week One: Sunday

3 1 Week One: Sunday He ran in the early morn­ ing, float­ ing like a spec­ ter amid the tall, wet pines of the Wis­ con­ sin for­ est. His thick hair ­ curled from the mist. His lungs ­ burned. His ­ breath stank of beer and cig­ ar­ ettes. At the road, he­ stopped and ­ swiped his ­ glasses on his baggy sweat­ shirt. Late June, and the damp, cold ­ spring had yet to give way to sum­ mer. Three ­ months ear­ lier, Dave Cu­ biak had left Chi­ cago, steer­ ing a small ren­ tal car north along the Lake Mich­ i­ gan shore, ­ across the Il­ li­ nois state line, and up two hun­ dred miles to the Door ­ County pe­ nin­ sula. He was­ forty-two, a for­ mer cop un­ done by the ­ deaths of his wife and daugh­ ter, who had been ­ killed in an ac­ ci­ dent he be­ lieved he could have pre­ vented. The move was sup­ posed to be a fresh start. In­ stead, it was a mis­ take. Grief ­ stricken, guilt rid­ den, and often drunk, Cu­ biak felt like a blot on the tour­ ist land­ scape, a re­ clu­ sive mis­ fit among the ­ friendly lo­ cals, peo­ ple who waved even to strang­ ers. He had com­ mit­ ted to stay­ ing one year and had nine ­ months to go. The time it took to grow a baby, to fig­ ure out what next. 4 Cu­ biak ad­ justed his ­ glasses and bent over, his hands on his knees. For a mo­ ment, he ­ thought of his ­ mother and felt ­ ashamed. He had­ failed her; he had ­ failed every­ one. A sharp wail shat­ tered the still­ ness, and ­ through old habit Cu­ biak straight­ ened, try­ ing to pin­ point the ­ source. A sea­ gull wheel­ ing over the bay? In his new job as park ­ ranger, he’d some­ times watch the plump birds ­ dive-bombing the water, full of avian bra­ vado. Per­ haps the sound had been made by a red fox on the prowl. Or the wind. Si­ lence again. The for­ est gave away noth­ ing. He stud­ ied the dirt path on the other side of the black­ top. The trail was the quick­ est route to Jen­ sen Sta­ tion, where the Pe­ nin­ sula State Park rang­ ers lived and ­ worked, but he was in no hurry to re­ turn to his tem­ po­ rary home. The ­ longer he ­ stayed out, the ­ longer he could avoid his que­ ru­ lous boss, Otto John­ son, park super­ in­ ten­ dent. Cu­ biak opted for the road. Turn­ ing left, he plod­ ded ­ through a se­ ries of gen­ tle ­ curves. Half­ way­ around the final bend, he ­ stopped. ­ Twenty feet ahead, a ­ bleached red­ pickup idled along­ side the pave­ ment. The ­ ranger ­ squeezed his eyes shut. Too late. He’d taken in every­ thing. The truck with the ­ dented door gaped open. Otto John­ son ­ slumped ­ against a cor­ ner of Fal­ con Tower, and a body ­ sprawled at the park ­ super’s feet. Male. Av­ er­ age ­ height. Slim, youth­ ful build. Dark hair. Jeans. Shiny black ­ jacket. As a hom­ i­ cide de­ tec­ tive, Cu­ biak had been ex­ alted for his abil­ ity to ab­ sorb the de­ tails of a crime scene and to play them back with ex­ cru­ ciat­ ing clar­ ity. Al­ though his photo­ graphic mem­ ory ­ failed with the ­ printed page, it per­ formed with ­ camera-like ac­ cu­ racy in the ­ places where peo­ ple did their dirty deeds. In­ clud­ ing the seg­ ment of pave­ ment half a block from his house where the bat­ tered bod­ ies of his wife and daugh­ ter had­ sprawled in twin pools of blood. Cu­ biak ­ forced his eyes open. “Fuck,” he said. John­ son ­ started and ­ pushed away from the tower. Rain or was it tears glis­ tened on his ­ weathered face. “Looks like some kid took a nose dive off the top.” The park super stuck out his chin as if chal­ leng­ ing his new as­ sist­ ant to dis­ agree. 5 Cu­ biak said noth­ ing. “He’s cold. I can’t find a pulse,” John­ son went on. “You want to check?” “No.” Damp with sweat, Cu­ biak shud­ dered. He ­ didn...