Retribution Lake

By Robert Kline

One hundred years ago there was a brutal murder in Minnesota. The murderer was tried, convicted and executed by vigilantes in the small town of Fosterville. His final words forecasted a curse on the town and its residents. As the town plans to reenact the events of that fateful day on the hundredth anniversary, could the curse be coming true? The free lance journalist sent to Fosterville to report the celebration witnesses the terrifying events that predict the fulfillment of the curse but the residents of the small town take no notice. Now it's up to him to see that the final catastrophe does not occur.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Kline
• Release date: Nov 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466166554

Robert Kline

Raised in Philadelphia, transferred to Minnesota by 3M, had 2 successful novels published in early 90s, retired from 3M in '93, started Valley Forge Wood Products upon retirement, it is an online mfg and retailer of engraved items, embarking on extended writing career selling ebooks.

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Retribution Lake

Robert Y. Kline

Published by Robert Y. Kline at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Robert Y. Kline

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

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Chapter One

It was just another Friday afternoon in Manhattan. TGIF and all that. I suppose that Fridays are a big deal to the nine to five crowd. Check in to the job in the AM, take 45 for lunch, check out in the PM, count off five days then grab the paycheck on the way out the door and head on down to the bank and the liquor store. Nine to five, weekends off, paid vacation, health care -- a regular job. It's little more than a vague concept to me but right now it seems like it might be a good idea.

This was one of the vagrant thoughts that rolled about my lobes as I shuffled along the steamy sidewalks of Manhattan. Idle thoughts took my mind off the heat. Instead of mentally moaning about the torrid temp, I let my mind drift, as if, by ignoring the heat, it might be less oppressive. Fat chance. I couldn’t begin to pull it off because there were too many tropical reminders. The salty drop of sweat dangling from the tip of my nose. The dank patches in the armpits of my sweatshirt. The crackling glare of the lemon sun squeezing my pupils to pinpoints.

My dad used to call this kind of day an egg-fryer and one sweltering Summer day, to demonstrate the science, he cracked a jumbo Grade A on the hood of our black ‘72 Plymouth. You have to wonder how many great scientific discoveries have been launched from a six-pack of Schlitz. His theory was confirmed when the white crisped at the edges and the yolk roiled like the mud pits at Yellowstone. Six months later, the paint flaked away like industrial dandruff and left a rust spot the shape of Rhode Island and only a tad smaller. Dad was, I realize with some alarm, a dominant contributor to my own genetic stew.

The traffic light at Broadway winked from 'walk' to 'wait' and the foot traffic braked at the curb, not out of respect for the statutes but in deference to the average New Yorker's well-honed instinct for survival. The lady with the Bloomingdale’s bag must have been from out of town or a serial jaywalker or perhaps a little of each. She looked to her right, which works well if you want to check the tail lights of uptown traffic, but it’s not worth squat when you're crossing a northbound street. From the corner of one eye, I saw her scuttle around crowd and step off the curb. From the other eye, I sensed a yellow blur. The cabby didn't even tap his brakes as he blew through the intersection with the implied license granted to yellow, domed vehicles. I didn't see the impact, for which I'm grateful, but I did hear a mushy thwump then a throaty gasp from the large black gentleman standing next to me.

Good lord, he muttered then he took off like a Jets linebacker to where the poor woman lay in a crumpled heap on the shimmering concrete. Other walkers soon joined him, some to offer help, some to cluck and wring their hands, some to simply gape. Her shopping bag had soared halfway through the intersection and it had barely touched the ground before it was scooped up by a scrawny kid in a dirty t-shirt and a backwards Mets cap. There was nothing I could do for the poor lady so, with a sense of helplessness and a leaden heart, I stepped around the pack and hurried across the street.

Once safely across Broadway, I hooked a left and trudged south, staying close to the store fronts whose windows hawked trinkets, sundries and a galaxy of electronic wizardry. Homeward-bound workers were hurrying towards me, stretching their necks toward the tragedy. Horns honked impatiently at the sudden stall of traffic. The echo of the black man's oath rung in my ears and stung my conscience. She was probably somebody's wife or mother or grandmother. Maybe she'll be OK - a broken bone or two. Who am I kidding?

Two minutes ago I was just hot. Now I was hot and depressed. New York can do that to you. It was a little after five-thirty and the city was heaving a weary Friday sigh. Narrow canyons crammed with taxis and buses fouled the air with bleating horns and sooty flatulence while a pulsing network of underground arteries flowed uptown, downtown, crosstown, dispensing sweaty cargo to cool brownstones and suffocating tenements. Some of the more savvy city dwellers, like Marcia Eberle and Pete Dillon, chose to tough it out in air-conditioned comfort. I was on my way to meet them for a libation or two at our regular Friday watering hole. I hoped the booze and friendly conversation would pick me up.

Turning off Broadway, I headed up thirty-eighth, zeroing in on the overhead sign that proclaimed 'Murphy's', a welcome harbinger that understated the camaraderie and cheer that tingled behind its heavy oak door. The plate glass window was painted dull gilt and hunter green and I paused to check my reflection for any lingering hint of grief. It wouldn't do to carry my misery into Murphy's Ale House on a Friday afternoon. Most of its patrons were there to shed their own problems. I felt almost presentable with clean though faded jeans and a blue and white Villanova sweatshirt. I combed my hair with my fingers and, with a last sweltering breath, I pushed inside.

It took a few moments for my pupils to adjust so I lingered inside the door with my eyes squeezed shut and my pores open wide, luxuriating in the dry coolness and feeling the sweat evaporate from my skin like the surface of a wind blown lake. It was delicious and my mood was lightened by the welcome chill.

Hey, Carty! a voice boomed over the hum of air conditioning and the thrum of conversation. We're over here.

Pete and Marcia had arrived early and snagged one of the primo tables against the back wall. It was a good spot, out of the hectic traffic lanes and far enough from the bar so the wayward butts of passing patrons didn’t wave in your face. Blinking in the dimness, I plunged through the milling bodies.

Murphy’s is a working man's bar but not the faded jeans and muddy boots type. Most of the working men who frequent Murphy's wear dark suits and striped ties and, as often as not, have a cell phone stuck on their ear. They are also disgustingly young which is depressing. I'm pushing thirty-five and I remember that, when I was a callow youth of twenty-five, people over thirty seemed to walk slower and stoop lower. I shook the thought from my head. I didn't need to ponder another downer at the moment.

A mahogany bar that was vintage before I was even a gleam in my father's eye ran the length of the wall to my left and hordes of beautiful people were stacked three deep against it. The bar boasted a massive mirror that ran from the bottom, booze lined shelf all the way to the ten foot tin ceiling and, on its shelves, it showed to advantage almost every adult beverage known to man with emphasis on those distilled in the Emerald Isle, a veritable shrine to Saint Jameson. A dozen round cocktail tables dotted the space between the bar and the wall where Pete and Marcia waited. I squeezed through the mob as Pete commandeered a third chair and dragged it to the table.

You're late, he scolded as I slumped into the seat.

I looked at my watch. He was right but only by two minutes. I was tempted to tell him about the poor lady on Broadway with the Bloomingdale’s bag but I thought better of it. Why rain on his day?

Pete Dillon was fortiesh but looked even older. They say that Desert Storm did that to some of its warriors. His face was lined, his features chiseled but his eyes were soft, a pair of gentle flowers on a hillside of shale. I have no doubt that he was incredibly tough at one time, both mentally and physically, probably still is, a legacy of the torrents of determination and bullshit that preceded the wearing of the Green Beret? But all that was in another life, one that I know Pete would like to put behind him. The only remnant of the episode, aside from a thousand yard gaze he sometimes gets when his mind drifts to that grubby pile of sand, is an almost obsessive fascination with weapons. He's got a collection of guns, old and new, worth more than my Vette and, shortly after we met, he spent the best part of a Sunday afternoon boring me silly with explanations of pistols and shotguns and muzzleloaders.

I first met Pete two years ago at a book signing party in Chelsea. No, unfortunately it wasn't my party. But my ship, I constantly convince myself, will someday come in. This was one of those trendy, mutual worship events where the pseudo-literati congratulated the author effusively then turned away and snickered about him in low tones, all the while eating seedless grapes, goop on Trisquits and little blocks of cheese on toothpicks while they sipped white wine in precious little cups. Pete, never the conformist, was drooling for a cold beer and he so informed the hostess who finally obliged but only after a vexed roll of her eyes and a haughty sniff of annoyance. Noticing how it irritated her, I waited for her to return then asked for one of the same and Marcia Eberle, who had eavesdropped the exchange, followed suit. That's how the three of us met.

Pete's a mystery writer if one can call oneself a writer simply because one has filled the pages of a book with a series of words. I'm more inclined to think of one as a writer after one has actually sold a book to a reputable house but Pete's a good friend and I don't want to discourage him with my unsympathetic logic. Marcia's a magazine editor who is quickly working her way up the ladder at Grassroots, a small but respected travel monthly that prides itself on quirky angles to otherwise unremarkable subjects.

I'm exactly two minutes late, I told him, and in more exclusive circles that's considered fashionable. Besides, I added wearily, I have hiked the length and breadth of Manhattan today and deserve better than your abuse.

What's so important? Pete wondered as he took a sip of foam off the top of his beer.

Survival, I replied. Basic foodstuffs, clothing, shelter and the like.

I'll buy you a beer, Pete volunteered.

That too, I conceded, nodding in agreement. I continued my lament. I have been chasing down every editor, assistant editor, assistant editor in training and assistant to the assistant editor in training since eight o’clock this morning and I have spoken to exactly one of them and that was only because I cornered her on an elevator on her way to lunch

Baby, baby, baby, Marcia crooned, taking my still damp cheeks between her soft hands. You just tell Marcia all about it. Then, more seriously, she asked, What hot property are you pounding the pavement with?

With what hot property are you pounding the pavement? I corrected and she gave me an unladylike gesture.

Marcia Eberle was probably never in her life called beautiful. She was long and lanky, a little too wide in the shoulders and small in the hips, and she wore her dark hair outrageously long and stringy. Possibly a doting mother might think her pretty. She was, however, disturbingly sexy in an earthy way that defies explanation so I won't bother trying. Suffice it to say that she had a way of meeting your eye as she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue that provoked a stirring of the male loin. She doesn't intentionally do that to me though, fearful, I suppose, of endangering a comfortable friendship. As for her relationship with Pete Dillon, I don't know and I don't ask.

I’m working up a nifty story angle on Ellis Island, I said in answer to her question. I want to trace the fortunes of a single boatload of refugees who landed there in nineteen-sixty. I want to call it A Half Century of Progress or something clever like that.

Marcia wrinkled her brow and studied the patterned ceiling for a few seconds. I think I read that piece in Fortune a month or so ago.

Shit! I muttered. I always knew I ought'a read that rag.

A barmaid appeared out of the mass of bodies hovering nearby and Pete ordered and paid for three beers. I know that his poison of choice is Rum and Coke and I know that Marcia's partial to white zin but whenever the three of us get together it's always beer. Beer, after all, is the brew that brought us together at the snobby party in the first place.

You seem to be tossing your bucks around pretty loosely for someone who is awaiting major literary success, I said caustically. What did you do, sell a pint of blood?

Along with some sweat and a few tears, he said with an air of mystery that made his eyes twinkle like Fourth of July sparklers. Then he leaned back in his chair with a lop-sided grin on his craggy face and stared at the two of us as he sucked noisily on his beer.

Marcia and I exchanged curious glances and waited. Marcia blinked first. Are you trying to tell us something? she asked after the silence became unbearable.

Pete didn't answer, just sat there wearing that silly smirk like a little boy guarding a secret. His eyes bounced back and forth between us. He waited.

Marcia's mouth gaped in surprise. Holy shit, she blurted. You did it. You sold your book, didn’t you?

His grin widened into a happy slash that joined his ears together and he nodded. Today, a modest advance, he intoned gravely. Tomorrow, who knows? Literary greatness, New York Times Best Seller list, movie rights, perhaps even a signing party of my very own where everyone must drink beer straight from the bottle.

You son of a gun, I shouted and heads turned at nearby tables. You really did it! You sold your book!

Pete forced a frown. Did you ever seriously doubt that I would? he asked with an undertone of accusation.

No. I didn't mean it like that, I quickly corrected. I mean - I just mean congratulations. That's great, really great.

What a slug I am. Here my best friend in the whole world finally realizes his dream and I'm stung with a pang of jealousy.

The waitress arrived with three beers in fresh glasses and cleared the empties.

To the first of many successes, I announced with glass raised high. It was a pitifully anemic toast under the circumstances but it's what came out.

Who bought it? Marcia asked and he named the publisher, a small but influential house that prides itself on seeking fresh talent.

This was followed by a torrent of the obvious questions.

When will it come out?

Who's your editor?

What's the title?

How much is your advance?

Pete grinned at the last question but he didn't volunteer an answer right away. Let's just say that I expect to rake in a bundle when future royalty checks start rolling in, he finally quipped.

Pete, I admitted with a rueful sigh, I gotta admit that I'm envious.

As well you should be, he answered then he turned to Marcia. Isn't having jealous friends one of the perks that goes with being published? he asked.

Marcia nodded knowingly. It comes right after rich and famous.

What do you plan to do with your new found wealth? I asked. Buy a Ferrari? Add to your gun collection? Buy new underwear?

Pay some bills, he said modestly.

How, I wondered aloud, can a macho ex-Green Beret, whose hands are unlicensed instruments of death, ratchet down his imagination to the mundane world of ‘who-done-its’?

I knew instantly that I said the wrong thing because Pete suddenly got that faraway look in his eyes, the one that hits him when he recalls his stint in the desert. I quickly changed the subject. Success, I repeated, raising my glass high again.

Pete snapped out of his reverie and drank with me then his brow furrowed with concern. That explains my mood. What's with the dark cloud over your head? he asked.

Oh! I said in surprise. Does it show?

Pete laughed. You ought’a stick to writing and leave the acting to the actors.

I didn't want to toss a gloomy blanket on the celebration so I didn't go into all the lurid details about late rent checks and an empty fridge and an overdue payment on my aging red Corvette, a luxury I could neither afford nor did I deserve. I did, however, describe enough of my financial plight to elicit sympathetic coos and nods of understanding from Marcia.

But Pete wasn't buying any of it. Ah yes, the red Corvette, he said with strained tolerance. I seem to recall going through that phase of adolescence somewhere in my early twenties.

I couldn't afford a Corvette when I was in my early twenties, I whined.

You can't afford one now either, he said.

The waitress passed close by and Marcia ordered three more beers. We weren't close to being ready for them but service at Murphy's on a Friday afternoon can be spotty at best and it pays to seize the opportunity.

I really liked your piece on the Quakers, she told me. She was just trying to be nice because the article I did about the Pennsylvania Dutch Country in Lancaster County was over six months old and the few bucks that I got for it is long gone. I sold it to an airline magazine.

Thanks, I said. Now if I could only do something like that again, I might survive for another week or two. I shook my head sadly and took a long swig. At this point, I'll do anything for a buck, I admitted.

My financial plight wasn't really all that bad and Marcia knew it. I had a tad of reliable income. I did a political humor column for a weekly on Long Island and I free-lanced on ad copy for a local shopper. It covered some of the necessities like beer and rent but it didn't add up to Corvette income.

Suddenly Marcia got that light bulb over the head kind of look. Anything? she asked.

Huh?

You said that you’d do anything for a buck, she reminded me.

Anything at all, I exclaimed. I'll do the rainy season in Bangladesh, favorite recipes of island headhunters, a six part series on the sexual fantasies of female magazine editors.

How would you like to do a piece on a small town festival in Northern Minnesota? she asked.

I pretended to ponder for a moment. Hmmmm! Bangladesh or Northern Minnesota. That's a tough one.

I'm very serious, she said. She put her beer glass down on the table and fixed me with a hardened eye. We're scheduled to do a piece on a local fair in a little berg called Fosterville, Minnesota. I had a free-lancer all lined up for it but I got a call this afternoon telling me that he's in the hospital with appendicitis. She made a wry face. Appendicitis my ass. If I had to bet, I'd put him at the casinos in Atlantic City. She shrugged. Anyway, I was going to scratch the article and fill the space with some fluff about honeymoons in the Poconos but if you want to give it a go, it's yours for the asking.

It was certainly a tempting offer but there was a potential problem. Don't you think that could be a little dangerous? I warned. I mean if I worked for you on this article it might do irreparable damage to a beautiful though platonic friendship.

She smiled. You'd really be doing me a big favor. Besides, she said, it sounds like it could be an interesting story, maybe even a little fun.

I'm tempted, I admitted.

She lifted her eyes to the tin ceiling as if laboring with a huge math problem then she lowered them and met mine. Would fifteen-hundred plus per diem help you to make up your mind? she asked.

I rolled the thought around for less than a micro-second. I might be willing to risk our friendship for a figure like that. Tell me more about it.

I was committed and we both knew it.

To tell you the truth, she said, I'm a little envious. It sounds like it has all the makings of a nice paid vacation. All you have to do is cover a quaint little town fair in the lake country in Northern Minnesota. You can even bring along your diving gear and take a couple of days of R & R.

Marcia knew how to push my hot button. In addition to my red Vette, another glaring weakness was an insatiable appetite for skin and scuba diving and I rarely passed up an opportunity to wet my fins. Pete once suggested that I'd skin dive in a toilet bowl if it was deep enough. I haven't had too many chances to dive lately, I admitted.

All the more reason.

What kind of festival is it? I asked. Is it one of those Swedish ludefisk fiestas?

Marcia took a long swig of beer then she met my eye as she licked the suds from her lip with a delicious sweep of her tongue. That's what I want you to find out, she told me. It's the name of the event that caught my attention in the first place.

Oh! What's it called?

She smiled wickedly. The one-hundredth anniversary of Caleb Gibson's Last Bath.

~ ~ ~

Chapter Two

What the hell did I go and get myself into now? I wondered aloud as I trudged with Pete up the broad stone stairs of the New York Public Library. I paused at the half way mark to catch my breath and looked up to see a large stone lion mocking me. Pete, indifferent to my plight, kept going up and, without me as an anchor, took the remaining steps two at a time. When he reached the top, he turned and waited with barely concealed impatience. When I finally joined him, I felt like I had just run a marathon and he looked like he stepped out of an ad for a health studio.

Pete wasn't that much taller than me, maybe an inch or so, but I always felt stubby and slow next to him, a wiry leopard beside a dumpy house cat.

Sounds to me like you got yourself one helluva deal. I don't know what you're griping about, he said. I sure wish I could go with you.

I bet!

The morning sun was bright but not yet sizzling. It was going to be another egg fryer for sure. I wore a sleeveless gray sweat shirt and jeans, not debonair but comfortable. Pete was more presentable but only barely. At the best of times, neither of us worshiped the gods of fashion. We pushed through the library doors and breathed in the cool and learned air then we went to the counter and fired up the microfilm readers and began our search. I had already tried to Google the information on my iPad but the results were disappointing. While I learned a bit of trivia about Fosterville, Minnesota, not a word about Caleb Gibson turned up in the online search. Fortunately, neither of us was a stranger to the micrifiche system and within fifteen minutes we were seated at a blond oak table along with everything the library had to offer about the town of Fosterville, Minnesota.

Pete was unfolding a Minnesota road map and I was leafing through a reference book the size of Manhattan's Yellow Pages. Going to the library was Pete's idea. Before we left Murphy's the night before, he volunteered to help out with some pre-trip research, suggesting that the more I could accomplish before I left on my journey, the more time I'd have time to, in his words, revel in the sensual delights of the Northwoods playground. I sensed a note of gleeful sarcasm in his description. He had the colorful map of the Northstar State spread before him.

"Lookee here, there really is a Fosterville, he announced, seemingly surprised at the discovery. He poked his index finger at one of the small blue spots that dotted the map like a skin ailment. It looks like it's right between this river and this lake."

Craning my neck, I squinted at Pete’s discovery. The town was there all right, almost dead center on the map. The typeface that declared Fosterville was the smallest font that the map maker could employ without sending the reader out for a magnifying glass. Even on the map, the place seemed as remote as the North Pole.

Northwoods playground, my ass, I muttered as I shook my head and frowned.

Pete chuckled. And lookee over here. He moved his finger a quarter of an inch higher, covering the curve in the river and the town name and letting his fingernail tap the italic lettering that identified the blue smudge. I bet there's some kind of interesting story to this.

I leaned even closer. Retribution Lake, I read aloud. The background of that name ought’a be good for a couple of hundred words in the article.

The lake was a pale blue raindrop on a field of mossy green, miles from most of the bright red arteries and state highways, that snaked back and forth across the map. Only the river and one meandering thin red line entered and left the town of Fosterville. The road, too small to be named on the map, ran north and south and appeared to be the town’s only vehicle access.

I wonder where the international airport is, Pete quipped.

Doesn't matter, I said, ignoring his sarcasm. I'm driving there.

He gave me a look of feigned astonishment. Do you have any idea how far away that godforsaken place is? he asked. Fosterville, Minnesota is all the way on the other side of the Hudson River. He paused in thought. It might even be further away than Staten Island.

Doesn't matter, I said. It'll be the first chance I've had in many moons to put the Vette through her paces. She needs to breathe some clean country air and clear the soot out’a her rusty lungs. Besides, I'm gonna load up the trunk with my diving gear. Marcia had a good idea when she suggested some R & R on the lake and I plan to take her up on it.

He smiled indulgently and shrugged. Whatever turns you on, Carty. He glanced at the open page in the reference book in front of me. What did you come up with?

Under the general heading of Minnesota , I had located Fosterville in the index of cities and towns and found a short bio of Fosterville which I shared with Pete. It started out as a rugged mill town with nothing but worker shacks, a saloon, a tiny jail, a non-denominational church and a sawmill that was owned by a family named Foster. The settlement supported the burgeoning logging industry that flourished in northern Minnesota near the turn of the century. A serious undertaking for that remote part of the country, the mill employed over one hundred men and put out more than fifty-thousand board feet of lumber per day. That seemed like quite a bit of wooden planks to me and I envisioned an army of sturdy men in winter macinaws and fur hats swinging axes and felling timber while they grunted Scandinavian oaths. I could hear the nip of the blade as it violated the thick bark and I could smell the tang of sap as it oozed like fresh blood from the wound.

The sawmill closed in 1932, I read aloud, and, since then, the town has relied on tourism and sport fishing in the summer and snowmobiling in the winter to support its dwindling population. The writer described the population as eight-hundred in the summer and three hundred and fifty in the winter.

Pete rolled his eyes. We get more than that in Murphy's on a Friday night.

I ignored him and read on. On July 22nd, 1910, a fire of unknown, though some say suspicious, origin consumed the offices of the town newspaper, The Fosterville Courier, destroying virtually every official record of the events that preceded it. I looked up.

That's all there is? he asked.

What did you expect for a town with eight hundred in the summer and three-fifty in the winter? Did you come up with anything else?

A little. In addition to the map, Pete had an historical journal of Who’s Who in Minnesota opened in front of him. It was old and dog-eared, as battered as an airport phone book. I looked under the name 'Caleb Gibson', he said. There were only two Caleb Gibsons listed. One was a trial lawyer from Minneapolis who ran for congress in the late twenties. A pause. He lost. Pete smiled wickedly. And then there was the other Caleb Gibson.

Another pause - this one showing no signs of ending until I bit. Please tell me about the other Caleb Gibson,I implored.

The other Caleb Gibson, he began with the flair for drama that I suppose he exhibits in his novel, was a rapist and a murderer from yet another dramatic pause, guess where. He met my eye expectantly.

Yonkers? I deadpanned.

He waited, unimpressed by my attempt at humor.

Okay, Fosterville, Minnesota, I reluctantly said.

Bingo! he shouted.

Shhhhhhh! a gray haired lady looked up disapprovingly from a tome and shushed from three tables away.

Pete put an apologetic finger to his lips and nodded like a chastised child. Right on. Listen to this, he whispered and he began to read.

On July 22nd, 1910, in the small town of Fosterville in northern Minnesota, the young widow Nellie Foster was brutally raped in her cabin after which she and her young son, Abel, were strangled and left for dead. Like many such small mill towns, Fosterville had its very own neer-do-well and town bully. In Fosterville’s case, his name was Caleb Amos Gibson. Gibson was immediately suspected of the crime, more from reputation than from evidence. He was quickly hunted down by a posse of townspeople and thrown into a jail cell to await trial by the circuit judge who was due to swing through the area in two months. Enraged by the senseless atrocity and impatient with the plodding system of justice, a team of vigilantes led by William T. Foster, the father of the murdered girl and grandfather of Abel, stormed the jail in the middle of the night, snatched Caleb Gibson from the relative safety of his cell and conducted a hasty trial in the saloon, said to have lasted the length of time that it took to wrap the accused in heavy chains and drag him to the shores of Small Bear Lake. The team of vigilantes threw the struggling and cursing prisoner into a large fishing boat and rowed to the center of the lake where, with a short prayer for his black and evil soul and a collective sigh of good riddance, they pushed him, squirming and screaming, over the side to meet his maker. In one swift episode of frontier justice, William T. Foster and his neighbors exacted revenge for the mindless murders, rid the town of a dangerous nuisance and saved the circuit judge from the rigors of Autumn travel into the remote lumber country.

Pete looked up. We could use a little more of that brand of frontier justice around here, he said in a horrible John Wayne take off.

Returning to the article, he continued, There is little doubt that Caleb Gibson was indeed guilty of the heinous crimes for which he was summarily charged and executed; however, witnesses to the town's swift revenge report that the unrepentant bully vowed his own vengeance even as he was sinking beneath the lapping waves of Small Bear Lake. Almost as bizarre as Gibson’s crimes and his execution is the ongoing superstition that these events spawned. Throughout the years there have been numerous reports of eerie sightings of the killer, the most unnerving of which was on the night of July 22nd, 1920, exactly ten years after the date of the murders and Gibson's execution, when a group of towns people (who had, by their own admission, been drinking heavily) reported seeing a creature, with a frightening resemblance to Gibson, enter the offices of the town newspaper, The Fosterville Courier. Later that same night, the building and all of its records burned to the ground. The charred body of William T. Foster, a look of terror on his toasted face, was found inside the smoldering ruins.

Pete looked up again then he jabbed a finger at the page and he turned the book toward me. Here's a publicity shot of the town desperado, he said.

The photo of Caleb Gibson was grainy and indistinct but, even with the imperfections of century old photography and the tight confines of the small inset, it was obvious that evil was in abundance. I shuddered inwardly and hoped that Pete didn't notice. It was a full-length photo that showed a rangy man, possibly in his mid-thirties. He wore a collared shirt, buttoned to the neck, and leather chaps above laced boots. He was standing beside a log cabin, its wide plank door ajar and its window obscured by a cloth drape. He cradled a long handled wood axe in the crook of his right arm with his thumb hooked in his belt. while the left arm hung lazily at his side. He wore a full and scraggly beard that masked the lower half of his face but which only accentuated the malice that burned like the fires of hell from his brooding eyes, one of which glared menacingly at the camera while the other wandered aimlessly into space.

He looks like a nice enough sort of guy, I ventured, trying to hide the trepidation in my voice. Do you think you'd like to come along and help celebrate his last bath?

Pete gave me a bland grin. I don't think so, Carty. I couldn't handle the excitement.

~ ~ ~

Chapter Three

Pete thought I was nuts to drive from New York to Minnesota, about twelve hundred miles of interstate, but what the hell, you don't buy a car that costs as much as a small house just to leave it parked and lonely in a stuffy garage while you hop a jet at LaGuardia. Besides, it was a beautiful Sunday morning, the air was warm, the sky was blue, the traffic was light and I had a paying