“That’s right — we’re renting from Mrs. Jackson. Not sure how long we’re staying, though. You don’t happen to know how I can find her, do you? Mrs. Jackson, I mean. I have a few complaints to make about her advertising.”
The big man laughed and looked perplexed. His partner said smoothly, “You’ll have to kick the bucket if you want to find her. She passed away a couple of years ago. If she’s still collecting rent, I’d like to know how she manages it.”
Chip exchanged a glance with his father. The big man laughed again. “This is my partner, Garth Laberge,” he told them. “I’m Dalton Smith. We do a little hunting around here. In season, of course, always in season. We’re not hunting right now.”
“Well, my name’s Mallory,” Chip’s father told them. “I don’t hunt at any time. I fish a little now and then. In season, though, always in season.”
The big man’s cold, grey eyes glared at Mr. Mallory, as if he were trying to pinpoint some mockery in the reply. Then, just as quickly, he relaxed, cleared his throat, and continued.
“We dropped by to give you some friendly advice, like. Maybe you won’t be staying here — this place don’t seem too suitable for folks like you — but just in case you do, I wanted to tell you about the Dobes we train.”
“Dobes?”
“Yeah, the Dobermans — you know what they are. Mighty fine dogs, but not very friendly. We raise ’em to sell and even hunt with ’em sometimes, along with a beagle we got, and they keep the shanty folk away from our property, but they ain’t too good at picking out shanty folk from tourists, so it’s as well if you don’t make ’em try.”
“We got farms side by side up the concession road — he’s got the big house and I’ve got a modern one — both on the other side of the bay there,” the shorter man indicated with a wave. “We ain’t no shanty folk, either. We were born in these parts. Lived here all our lives. Do pretty well for ourselves, too, even though the factories down here are closing and the government up there in Ottawa just keeps stepping on us.”
He strutted over to the Mallorys’ SUV and laid one rough hand on the hood. “I drive something pretty well in this class,” he said, stepping back and waving at the SUV, “even though Dalton here makes fun of it.”
“Me? Hell no! I don’t make fun of no car that attracts the gals the way yours does.” The big man guffawed loudly, but his partner seemed suddenly irritated.
He leaned forward toward Mr. Mallory, his dark eyes flashing, and said very quickly, “Anyone’s welcome to use the beach over on the other side of the bay. But I wouldn’t go back in the bush beyond if I were you. We can’t always be keeping an eye out for strangers. And the Dobes don’t like the shanty folk any more than we do.”
“Who are these shanty folk you keep talking about?” Chip asked.
The stocky man started to answer, but the big man cut in, hardly looking at Chip as he told him, “Those are no-good hillbilly folk — from the States, most likely. Why they drift up this way, I dunno. All of ’em useless. Come up here just to breed and sit on their bottoms, I figure. They’ve built a whole row of houses, a real rabbit warren, along the road toward Nashua. Terrible shacks, junk and garbage everywhere, all tossed out the windows. Don’t pay their taxes, don’t do nothing for themselves. Give the country a bad name. We work hard for a living and don’t want them folks sneaking around and stealing our stuff.”
“Well, I don’t think we’ll be doing any hiking in your neck of the woods any time soon,” Mr. Mallory said lightly.
“Well then, I think we’re about done,” the stocky man confirmed. “Just wanted to lay some friendly advice on you.”
They turned together and ambled on back to their car. “Have a nice vacation,” Dalton called out as he swung himself into the vehicle.
“Don’t let that Mrs. Jackson haunt you none,” Garth Laberge added, bestowing a final smirk on father and son, their SUV, and the scene in general.
Within minutes the red car had disappeared down one fork of the dusty lake road.
Chip stopped to explain to Lee about the visitors, then drifted inside to tell his mother. She shook her head as she dabbed on the disinfectant.
“I didn’t like the look of that pair at all.”
Twilight came on fast; the air grew heavy and damp; a curtain of mist began to hide the lake. They gathered inside and shook out the beds, ignoring the sad, torn coverlets, then carried their sleeping bags and a few blow-up pillows in from the car. After they had shut all of the screenless windows, they attacked the whole cabin with bug spray. Lee complained loudly about the chemicals.
“Get eaten or get gassed,” Mrs. Mallory said. “Take your pick.”
“Could we throw out that chemical toilet?” Mr. Mallory asked.
“Why not just burn the place down?” Chip suggested. “In the morning, though.”
It was getting very dark outside; everyone was bustling around, setting up for sleep, when a knock on the door surprised them.
“It’s not them again, I hope,” Mrs. Mallory said.
“Let us pray,” her husband growled. He looked around instinctively for a weapon.
“It’s only a girl,” Chip informed them, gazing out one of the dusty windows.
Lee scrambled to the door and flung it open.
“Excuse me,” their visitor said in a small, timid voice.
She was a tall girl, taller than Lee, but bony and underfed-looking, though with good features and pale, clear skin. She gaped at them, confused or shy, peering from one to the other with her big, dark eyes.
Chip found her fascinating, but also off-putting. There was something unfocussed and crazy about her expression, and her clothes were simply embarrassing: a mauve T-shirt with a Bambi transfer; a man’s dark suit jacket, much too big for her; polyester green slacks; and cheap running shoes, one of them with string in place of laces.
“Excuse me,” the girl repeated. “I’m looking for my dog.”
Lee gave a little shriek of laughter. “Don’t tell me — it’s a Doberman!”
The girl looked suddenly terrified. “That’s enough, Lee,” her mother said sharply. “Why don’t you come in, my dear?” she invited the stranger. “You look stressed and the mosquitoes are swarming around.”
Their visitor hesitated, gazing from one to the other, then stepped into the cabin.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She swallowed, cleared her throat, took a step forward, and when she spoke her features were stiff and tense. She seemed about to burst into tears.
“It’s my dog,” she said. “They tried to kill it. They set those other dogs on it. Then they tried to catch me. I had to leave my bike behind. I got away from them, but I couldn’t find Sheba — that’s my dog. I thought maybe you found her. She’s a husky and she likes people. She might come here.”
“Who’s they?” Mr. Mallory asked. “Who chased you?”
“Let the poor girl sit down,” Mrs. Mallory said. “I’m sure you’d like a drink, dear. A Coke, maybe? Here, sit down, I’ll get you one. What’s your name anyway?”
“May Bates,” the girl said, almost in a whisper.
Chip pulled a chair over for her and she sat down. She had an odd smell, he noticed, as if she’d spent too much time in a musty cupboard. Her fingernails weren’t quite clean, either.
May took a few swigs of the Coke; after a few minutes she seemed more relaxed.
“It