Kayli Unknown

By William Wresch

A tiny bar in a tiny Wisconsin town. Suddenly the front of the bar explodes as a young girl smashes a car through the wall. Kat rushes to help her as the roof of the bar collapses. The girl is dead. Who was she? Why did she crash her car into the bar? Why has no one in town ever seen her before? Why is no one at her memorial service? Her bracelet says her name is Kayli. Kayli Who?

Kat searches the back roads of the county. Kayli must be from one of the cabins deep in the woods. What she finds is drug dealers and survivalists - and danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wresch
• Release date: Feb 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463411230

William Wresch

I have three sets of books here. The first is an alternative history of the US, envisioning how things might have gone had the French prevailed in the French and Indian War. That series comes from some personal experiences. I have canoed sections of the Fox, and driven along its banks. I have followed the voyageur route from the Sault to Quebec and traveled from Green Bay to New Orleans by car and by boat. My wife and I have spent many happy days on Mackinac Island and in Door County. The Jessica Thorpe series is very different. It takes place in the tiny town of Amberg, Wisconsin, a place where I used to live. I wanted to describe that town and its troubles. Initially the novel involved a militia take over of the town, and it was called "Two Angry Men." But both men were predictable and boring. I had decided to have the story narrated by the town bartender - Jessica - and I soon realized she was the most interesting character in the book. She became the lead in the Jessica Thorpe series. I restarted the series with a fight over a proposed water plant with Jessica balancing environmental rights and business rights. I put Jessica right in the middle of a real problem we are experiencing here in Wisconsin (and most other places). How badly does a tiny town need jobs? How much environmental damage should we accept? The third series changes the lead character. Catherine Johnson solves mysteries. She also travels. It took her to many places I have been. The last several books take place in Russia. I admit I have no idea what is motivating the current madness there. Catherine looks, she tries to help, she struggles. What else can any of us do?

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Girl in the Car

Kat was tending bar when it happened. Not her job, really, but she had gotten a call at three.

The bar isn’t open.

Kat recognized the voice. One of the Kaminski sisters. Lisa, the regular bartender wasn’t at work again. Maybe sick, maybe shacked up, maybe screaming into the night as she sometimes did. Jim, the owner, would be teaching until three thirty, and then have basketball practice. So who was left to open the bar? Jim’s girlfriend. The Kaminski sisters made the call, announced the problem, and hung up.

Kat pulled on her coat and boots and backed her fourteen passenger bus out into the cold.

January at the northern edge of Wisconsin. Snow, cold, sunset at four thirty. Kat drove down empty roads to an empty town. Maybe twenty homes still occupied. Only three businesses left. The three were huddled together with empty lots on each side. Kat parked across the street – next to the unused train tracks.

The ancient sisters were pressed against the door of the bar as if they wished to push their way through. Or maybe they were just feeling some warmth come through the cheap laminated door. Kat unlocked the door and let them in. They went to their usual place – a small table and two chairs pressed against the right wall. The wall farthest from the bar. Farthest from the other customers. Kat brought them each a glass of white wine while one sister pulled out a cribbage board and the other shuffled cards.

The bar was a simple place. Old, shabby. A huge pool table took up the middle of the room. A long bar took up what space remained. Twelve barstools and a large TV. That was pretty much all there was. Kat got behind the bar, kicked the half barrels to see how full they might be, put her key in the cash register, and ran a rag over the bar. She was open for business.

It was nearly four when the first loggers arrived. Chuck White’s crew. Six men in their twenties who had been out in the cold all day. Each wanted a glass of beer and a shot of brandy. They sat opposite the TV, and glanced at some ESPN talk show, but mostly they talked among themselves and with Kat. Kat poured a round. Two of the guys she thought might not be legal age, but she served them anyway. If they could handle eight hours with a chainsaw, she thought they earned the right to drink with their buddies.

Conversation? Complaints about the cold. Complaints about the woodlot. Too many poplars. Trees too small. All singles. Only two doubles all day. Kat had just started to ask what a double was, and then it happened.

The side of the bar exploded. The front corner. No more than two feet from where the old women played cribbage. The Kaminski sisters were blown towards the back of the room. The men at the bar ducked and dropped. Kat stood and watched. The car was ancient, and large. Maybe gray, maybe brown. Any color long faded and mottled with rust. The driver was a girl. A girl. Young. Far too young to be driving. Her face was already pressed up against the windshield from the impact with the wall. No seatbelt. No air bags. She was off the seat, over the steering wheel, face on the glass. And her expression? Absolute terror.

And then the car hit the pool table. Slate top, mahogany sides, brass inlays, it weighed a ton and hadn’t been moved in decades. It didn’t move now. The car hit the pool table and disintegrated. The radiator exploded, the front bumper bent back into the engine compartment, dented fenders blew rust and dirt all over the room.

And the girl. Kat saw her. Just before impact she turned her face, looking away, closing her eyes. It probably would not have mattered, not with that impact, but by turning her head, when the car stopped and the girl’s body didn’t, her head was pinched against her shoulder. It couldn’t possibly be true, but Kat could swear she heard her neck snap.

The back of the car rose up, almost in protest of the sudden stop, and then it dropped. When it hit the floor, the driver’s door – what was left of it – popped open. And Kat watched the girl first drop back against her seat, then slide to her left and fall from the car. She landed face down, her legs and feet still in the car.

Kat was the first one to the girl. She crouched over her, shielding the girl with her body as portions of the ceiling fell. Fiberglass ceiling panels, light panels, insulation, pieces of lumber and metal from the eight or ten remodelings that had occurred during the hundred years the building had served beer. All rained down. Kat was hit across her back with things sharp, dull, heavy, and light. It hurt.

Her concern was the girl. Kat had been trained multiple times. One thing she knew for certain – you did not move someone with a neck injury. Unless the building was on fire, or the roof was ready to collapse. Would the roof be coming down? Maybe. Kat got hit by something heavy. She began to worry she might collapse onto the girl. She braced herself on one elbow, and slowly lifted the hair that covered the girl’s face. She was pretty sure what she would see, but she had to be sure. The face was twisted, turned, becoming a darker red as blood rushed down from her legs. Movement? None. Breath? None that she could feel. Kat put two fingers on her neck, feeling for a pulse. She couldn’t find one.

Kat heard screams from the old ladies as one of the rafters squealed, twisted, and then snapped. There was a thud as a major portion of the roof collapsed just inside the front door. And more squeals as other rafters took the strain, then twisted and snapped. Kat kept her fingers on the girl’s neck. She slid up and down looking for any sign of life in that skinny neck. She found nothing.

She heard movement behind her. The loggers. Out from under the bar or behind their bar stools, they were retreating toward the back of the room. And they were calling to her. She heard their warnings. She also heard the snap of larger boards. The roof was coming down. She kept her fingers on that throat, and wondered if the girl could be protected or moved.

More things dropped on her. Heavier things. Sharper things. Things that hurt. She shielded the girl as best she could. The air filled with dirt and fiberglass, and then with snow as a huge portion of the roof dropped and took out the front door and windows. Kat braced herself to keep debris off the girl’s face. But she felt more and more weight on her back. And her fingers felt no life in that skinny neck.

And then strong hands grabbed her ankles and pulled. She was buried under a layer of ancient ceiling tiles. She twisted to one side as she was pulled. And she had the strangest vision. The girl’s feet and legs were still in the car. As Kat twisted, she saw them. They were bare. Bare feet, bare legs as her blue cotton dress slid down off her legs. Kat reached out with one hand to pull the girl’s skirt up towards her feet. A gesture to modesty? A silly effort. The skirt was already sliding back to the floor as Kat was pulled away.

There was a back exit to the bar, a small door that led out to where the trash barrels stood. Kat was picked up and carried out. One of the loggers brushed insulation and building materials off her. Another stood between Kat and the door, blocking the clouds of dust and dirt and pink insulation that blew out the door in waves as section after section of the roof came down.

Kat couldn’t see very well. She feared she had fiberglass insulation in her right eye. She kept her hands away from her face and hoped tears would help. She had plenty of those. There was general movement away from the garbage barrels and away from the dust continuing to billow from the back door. As they moved, Kat counted shapes. Eight. Two small. Six larger. A large shape held each of the small shapes. Two large shapes held her.

She’s dead. No one had asked, but Kat told them anyway. Broken neck. I checked for a pulse. She’s dead.

The two men holding her mumbled something like, You did what you could. And they kept walking, shuffling through the snow of the empty lot beside the bar. Even the empty lot was being buried in debris as the wall on that side bent outward, and then collapsed. Dirt collected over a century exploded in a gray cloud across the snow. They veered farther from the building, still breaking through the deep snow, headed toward the street.

The front wall was gone, as was half the roof. The north wall – the side toward the empty lot – had initially collapsed toward the interior of the bar, but later sections had collapsed out and lay across the winter’s snow. The bathrooms were on that side of the bar. Pipes and toilets were visible.

The group stood on the street and waited. And watched. And listened. Things were still falling inside the bar. Things were still breaking. Clouds of dust rose in the air like smoke. The old ladies cried. Two men said they would help them home. Home was just the next block. Four shapes left. One shape came running up. Ed Schneider from the party store. No one from the restaurant. It was only open weekends in the winter. No one driving by. It was dark, it was cold, people were in their homes in front of TVs.

Phones came out, and 911 was called. Ed, the town gossip, wanted to know what had happened. Kat thanked the two men who had pulled her out, and then stepped away from them. There was fresh snow across the street. She got down on her knees and washed her face and hands in the snow. And then she started vomiting. She was still vomiting when the ambulance arrived from Wausaukee.

Eventually the appropriate people arrived and did the usual things. EMTs washed Kat’s eyes and checked her for concussion. She got the usual warnings about headaches and dizziness and was told to stay awake. She nodded her head, accepted the blanket they wrapped around her shoulders, and stared at the bar. It appeared to have stopped collapsing, but dust, dirt, and pink insulation continued to float out of any opening.

The volunteer firefighters were next on the scene. There was no fire – yet. But two of their people went in through the back door and shut off all systems. One of them took the time to find Kat’s coat and purse and bring them to her. There were six or seven other volunteers, all dressed in their fire clothes, but all they could do was stand near the bar and watch it, the same as all the others who gathered. Mostly they just kept people backed away from the bar, not that there was any real effort to get close. Rafters were still making squealing noises as they settled.

Dave Kekkonen arrived a few minutes after the firefighters. He parked his Deputy Sheriff squad where it was visible, but out of the way. He spent a long time calling back to the office in Marinette, describing the scene. No doubt other squads would be coming up from the southern reaches of the county.

It took him three conversations before he got to Kat. She understood. The fire people would tell him of any ongoing dangers, and the EMTs would tell him about casualties. She saw one of the loggers talking to Dave and pointing in her direction. Kat knew she would be next.

You’re lucky to be alive, Kat.

They told you about the girl?

Yes. She’s dead?

Broken neck. I checked.

I know you did. Dave stared at her. Clearly he was trying to determine how badly she had been injured, and how heavily he could interrogate her. You saw her face?

Yes. Girl. Young. Maybe twelve or thirteen. Far too young to be driving.

Did you recognize her?

No. She was looking past Kekkonen at the bar. She was terrified, Dave. I have had soldiers spook on a patrol. I have never seen anyone this afraid. I could see her face as the car came through the wall. There was this instant before it hit the pool table. She was out of her seat, her face already on the windshield from the impact with the wall. She looked at me. This terrified little girl.

They say you shielded her as the ceiling came down.

You can’t really hear a neck snap. But I thought I did as the car hit the pool table. But she was just this little girl, lying face down on the floor, partly in the car, partly out. So I went to her.

They need to brace up the walls and roof. Probably be tomorrow, but they will get her out, and the funeral home in Wausaukee will make sure she is handled with respect.

She had bare feet, Dave. Bare feet and bare legs. Just a blue cotton dress. In January.

Kat, you’re bleeding just above your hair line. I’m going to send the EMTs back to you.

Dave sent an EMT back for Kat, and then went off to talk to other witnesses. The EMT apologized, cut a small circle of hair from Kat’s scalp, and put a series of bandages in place.

It might be better with stitches. Sometimes they use staples or even glue. None of that is simple, and all of it has to come out again. So I am going with these bandages. But if the bleeding starts again, you need to drive to Marinette to have it fixed better.

Kat thanked him. And then she drove home. Her fourteen passenger minibus was cold. She drove the first block slowly, both to avoid people who were now arriving to look at the scene, but also because she felt light headed. She probably should not have been driving, but she wanted to get home. Halfway there, her vision clouded up again. She was crying. She just stopped her bus in the middle of the road. Rural Wisconsin. Back corner of nowhere. She could do that. Just stop the bus and cry. She had visions of that little girl, first her face pressed against the windshield, and then her face down on the concrete floor of the bar. Kat wrapped her arms around herself. She cried. Finally she got the bus moving again, back to her home.

Chapter 2

Jim

Kat’s home was huge, dark, and empty. It felt emptier than ever before. Built to mimic the famous fishing lodges of Canada, it had log walls, a two story great room with stone fireplace and huge windows looking south over the lake. Above an open stairway were six bedroom suites built for the millionaires who had never come. Below were the kitchen, a dining room, and Kat’s bedroom.

Kat was desperate to use her bedroom, but knew the EMT had been right about concussion. She had been hit multiple times – hard. She needed to sit, and wait, and check her own health. She chose a couch before the stone fireplace. Leather. All the seating in the great room was leather. High quality, large, dark – male furniture. Purchased, designed, and placed to please rich fishermen – who had never chosen to patronize a lodge on a very average lake in the back corner of Wisconsin. She would sink into the soft leather, monitor her pulse, and wait.

The fireplace was gas. She turned that on, but left the lights off. The gas pipes had been cleverly arranged so the fire at least vaguely resembled a real fire. She had brought the gas in. The fireplace was huge, and there was an endless supply of wood in the forest surrounding her lodge. And her customers liked a wood fire. Nice aromas. Interesting colors. But a wood fire demanded constant attention. It wasn’t just cutting and splitting the wood. It was managing the fire – getting a good draft going so the smoke would go up the chimney and not into the room. Adding a log every few minutes. Poking the logs to move them into the best position as they burned. Waiting until the last of the fire was out before closing the damper, while cold air came down the chimney and chilled the room. Constant attention. She gave it that attention for two years, then had it converted to propane. Open the damper, flip a switch, fire. Far easier when her customers were gathered around each weekend, far easier tonight as she sat in the dark and stared into the flames.

Somewhat embarrassing. She owned ten acres of forest around the lodge. There was downed wood everywhere. But she used gas. Lazy? Yes. When you came right down to it, she was getting lazy. She looked at the flames and felt embarrassed.

She also felt empty. She had watched a young girl die. A terrible death. The girl terrified. Dead before she hit the floor. The cold, concrete floor of an ancient bar. A floor that needed scrubbing and resurfacing. How could any of that happen? Twelve? Thirteen? What was she doing in a car? What was she doing in a cotton dress in January? And now? Buried under the ancient roofing materials of a tiny bar at the back end of Wisconsin. Trapped on that dirty floor. Trapped in the January cold. No shoes.

Kat started crying again. She was sick at heart. She was also in pain. She felt herself begin to stiffen up. Her back had been hit hard and often. She would stiffen as she sat, and be worse in the morning. Much worse. An endless sequence of pain. She wished she had taken a Tylenol.

But she would have a morning. The girl would not. Kat pulled her feet up under her, wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and silently cried. She had left Afghanistan hoping she would never cry again. But she was. There it had been sitting on a steel bed in one half of a shipping container turning into post housing, here it was a luxury lodge and soft leather seat, but they were the same tears. She saw the girl’s face pressed against the glass, and she cried.

Jim came for her about midnight. People around town thought they were the perfect couple. Both tall. Champion basketball players, him on the local high school team, her on the University of Wisconsin team. Sometimes they were the perfect couple. Sometimes they weren’t.

He let himself in and settled himself next to her on the couch. He put an arm around her shoulders. He pulled her to him. She grimaced. He noticed.

How badly were you hurt?

Just cuts and bruises. I’ll be fine in a day or two.

Kekkonen called me. I came up after practice. I’ve seen the bar. You are lucky you weren’t killed.

Is she still in there? Kat turned to face him.

Everyone seemed to agree it would be safer to wait until morning and get some heavy equipment in. They fear the rest of the roof might drop.

Kat had this vision of the girl’s bare feet. January. She would be cold.

They explained about the crash?

Said she had a very old car and came in through the front corner. The pool table stopped her, or she might have hit the guys sitting at the bar.

She was terrified, Jim. I was facing that end of the building as I stood talking to the guys. I saw her face. I have never seen anyone that frightened.

Stole the car from her parents, I suppose. Thought she knew how to drive. Couldn’t control it.

She had bare feet.

Jim’s turn to stare at Kat. He was a decent looking man. Good hair for a man in his early forties. Solid face. Not handsome, but good enough. If you saw him walking down the street you would know he was a solid member of the community. Maybe a teacher, maybe a guy selling insurance. That solid face was now directed at Kat.

So, you think maybe a runaway?

Bare feet, bare legs, blue cotton dress, no coat. It’s like she stepped out of a warm living room, got into the car, and drove.

Fight with her parents? Kids do that. Something we think is nothing. Late homework assignment. Special TV show. They think it’s the end of the world. They explode. By now the parents have called 911. Kekkonen is probably talking to them. They don’t understand how it all happened. Parents don’t. Grownups don’t.

She was so scared, Jim.

We’ll know why tomorrow.

Long silence. They both stared at the fire. Jim kept his arm around Kat’s shoulder, but touched her carefully. Just finger tips sliding up and down her arm and shoulder. Light touches. Soft strokes. Kat slowly uncrossed her arms and put a hand on Jim’s knee.

I like your touch. But you know you aren’t getting anything tonight.

Jim just laughed.

Kat, I don’t want to insult you, but you understand you are covered in a hundred years of bar dust and pink insulation. Oh, and there’s a bandage where your hair used to be.

He told me it was a small bandage.

Small, and very attractive, but still, I think we’ll postpone any romance until you are not concussed and bleeding. Now. Let me get you to bed. Alone.

Jim stood, and pulled Kat up from the couch. He kept one arm around her as they walked back to her bedroom. He pulled her sweater over her head only to release a cloud of dust and dirt. Her jeans were just as bed. She tried to unhook her bra, but Jim saw her wince as she moved her arms behind her. He finished undressing her, and pulled a satin nightgown over her head.

You look sexy as hell in that nightgown, but I’m putting it on you because it will feel better on your bruises, not because I’m looking for any action.

Your time will come, but it may be a few days. She sat on the edge of her bed. Check my eyes for concussion, and get me a Tylenol, will you?

Jim turned on the overhead light and watched her pupils contract. He got the light off again pretty quickly, and brought her a Tylenol and glass of water. She was already under the covers. Jim lay on the other side of her bed, his clothes still on. She dropped off to sleep pretty fast. He watched her for a while, checked her breathing, then he slept too.

Jim’s mornings started pretty early, but he got her another Tylenol, and checked her pupils one more time before leaving for school promptly at seven. He also gave her a light kiss on the lips. Kat smiled, then dropped her head back onto her pillow, and went back to sleep.

Chapter 3

Lisa

Lisa arrived midafternoon. Kat was tempted to ignore the knock at her door. The Tylenol had helped – a little. But when she got up to use the bathroom she had felt dizzy. And she ached all over. And when she looked in the bathroom mirror, she knew she looked awful. It was a good day to just lie in bed.

But. Her lodge was