Stolen Season

Chapter One From the beginning, everything about the night was wrong. Everything. It was cold. That was the first thing. It was cold and there was a wet fog hanging over the water. The kind of fog that creeps into your bones, no matter how many layers you're wearing. The cold gets into your lungs and chills you from the inside out. I was in Brimley, toothe last place I'd expect to be. It's normally just a stop on the road, halfway around the bay if you're driving from Paradise to Sault Ste. Marie. There are two restaurants in town, with two different strategies for serving liquor, one of life's essentials on a night like this. Willoughby's has a separate bar in back, and the Cozy switches over at nine o'clock every night, when everyone under twenty-one is kicked out. There's one gas station with a little store on the side, and that's about it, the whole town right there, just down the road from the Bay Mills Indian Community. The rez. On a clear night I could have stood there on the shore and seen the casino lights across the water. But this was anything but a clear night. I figured Vinnie was probably over there, working at the blackjack tables, keeping order in his own quiet way. He had been a dealer for a few years. Now he was a pit boss. Vinnie's a Bay Mills Ojibwa, even though he lives off the rez. He's my neighbor, in fact, and one of my three last friends in the world. But I knew I wouldn't be seeing him that night, even if he was just around the bay. I leave the man alone when he's working. Hell, I leave him alone most of the time. That's just the way things are with him. Normally, I'd be back in Paradise on a night like this, spending my last waking hours at the Glasgow Inn. I'd sit in one of the big overstuffed chairs by the fire. Maybe there'd be a game on the television over the bar. Jackie Connery, the owner of the place and the Supreme Commander, was another friend. Although, unlike Vinnie, I seldom left Jackie alone. He'd never admit it, but Jackie would be lost without me, without my daily commentary on the way he makes breakfast, runs his bar, builds a fire, you name it. He tries to return the favor, but I ignore most of his advice. And his insults. Despite everything, he always has a cold Molson Canadian waiting for me, every single night without fail. He drives across the bridge to Canada once a week to buy a case for me, supposedly on his way to do something else. I think it's just a ritual to him now. An excuse to get out from behind the bar. Either that or he really wants me to have my Molson. Yeah, a cold beer and my feet up by the fire. That would have been another plan for this night. Instead of standing here on the edge of Waishkey Bay, in a stranger's backyard, looking out at the cold fog. Waishkey Bay opens up into Whitefish Bay, and beyond that lies the vast unbroken surface of the biggest, coldest, deepest lake in the world. Lake Superior. I could hear it out there. I could feel it. I just couldn't see it. I wrapped my coat tighter around my body and tried to convince myself I didn't need to shiver. I knew once that started, it wouldn't stop until I went inside. I wasn't ready to do that yet. There was too much noise in there. Too much smoke. I wanted to stay out here a little longer, by myself, looking out at the fog and what little I could make out in the night sky. Later, there would be fireworks, maybe invisible but fireworks just the same, right here over Waishkey Bay. Yes, that was the other strange thing about this night. I was standing here cursing myself for not wearing a warmer coat on the Fourth of July.Hamilton, Steve is the author of 'Stolen Season ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780312353605 and ISBN 031235360X.