Highway 61 (4 page)

“You keep saying that you don’t want to marry again, yet there’s a real chance that one day I could become Erica’s stepfather. Tell me again how I’m supposed to say no.”

“Marriage, McKenzie? Do you really want to bring that up now?”

“I’m just reminding you that I love you desperately and that there is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy, so if you want me to blow off Erica’s old man I’ll do it—just as long as you’re standing next to me when I tell her.”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I want to do that.”

“Me, neither.”

“Just out of curiosity, what kind of trouble is Jason in?”

“I’m kinda sorta sworn to secrecy on this one.”

“Is that right?”

“Kinda sorta.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“If you really want me to, I will.”

Nina thought about it for a few beats.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to break a promise for me.”

“You’re the only one I would do it for.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’ll give you a hint, though. When you two were married, did Jason go off on his own a lot, take trips by himself?”

“Let me guess. This is about Jason wanting to be alone with the music.”

“Something like that.”

“The thing is, McKenzie, he was never alone for very long. It’s why we’re not married today. One of many reasons, actually.”

“I figured. The truth is I’m not sure Jason’s in any real trouble. He’s paying a heavy fine for making some bad choices, which he richly deserves, by the way. If I’m right, though, he should be able to walk away from it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Scoot up to Thunder Bay tomorrow, check out a few things, and come back the following day.”

“While you’re doing this favor for Jason, would you mind doing one for me?”

“Sure.”

“Bring me some donuts.”

THREE

Early the next morning I drove north. I preferred Highway 61, the legendary roadway made famous in song and story, if only for the sights, but the road was interrupted by Interstate 35 between Wyoming, a small town just north of the Twin Cities, and Duluth. Once upon a time, Highway 61 was as important a thoroughfare as Route 66. It stretched from Thunder Bay in Canada nearly seventeen hundred miles south to the Orleans Parish Criminal Court Building in New Orleans, following the Mississippi River for most of the distance, and giving travelers an up-close and personal look at middle America. ’Course, that was before the interstate freeway system was built; before people decided they needed to get where they were going at the speed of light. Now Interstate 35 dominates. Drivers navigate it at seventy miles an hour in most places without seeing a thing worth mentioning. Certainly that was true of I-35 between the Cities and Duluth, just one long, dull ribbon of concrete decorated only by off-ramps and the obsequious outdoor advertising for Indian casinos.

The view improved greatly once I-35 intersected Twenty-sixth Avenue East in Duluth. That’s where it became Minnesota Highway 61 again and veered northeast. Suddenly there was plenty to see, mostly the rugged northern shoreline of Lake Superior, but also a stunning succession of lush forests, waterfalls, lighthouses, resorts, and small, curious towns. Unfortunately, somewhere between the Twin Cities and Duluth I had driven from fall into bleak winter. The gale-swept waves of Lake Superior began to break against the shore with an almost frightening ferocity. The trees had lost most of their leaves, becoming little more than gray skeletons amid a smattering of dull green fir trees, their amazing red and gold colors reduced to a thick brown carpet at the forest floor. Resorts that did not offer cross-country or downhill skiing were shuttered for the season, and the crowded tourist towns had become virtually empty of traffic. Certainly that was true of Grand Marais, a port city that could trace its history back four hundred years. I had hoped to lunch there on a fresh herring burger at a café with the unlikely name of the Angry Trout, only the café was closed. However, a bakery with the even more implausible name of World’s Best Donuts—which just might, in fact, make the world’s best donuts—was still open, and I devoured an assortment of cake and raised donuts. Yes, I know it wasn’t a particularly healthy meal, but they are the tastiest Nina and I have ever had. That’s why she requested that I bring some home, which I vowed to do on the return trip.

Just north of Grand Marais the world changed again. Snow appeared, first as scattered white dust, then in small, isolated patches—a reminder of things to come. Wind slapped my car from both the right side and the left. The temperature dropped to freezing. I could see the breath of the Canadian customs officer at the Pigeon River Border Crossing as he asked the requisite questions—where was I going, what was the purpose of my trip, how long was I staying, was I bringing in any food, did I have a gun? I wasn’t carrying, yet I was glad I had driven my Jeep Cherokee just the same. The false bottom in the trunk of my Audi might have raised embarrassing and unnecessary questions.

Once across the border, Minnesota Highway 61 became Ontario Highway 61 and wound forty-five miles to Thunder Bay. Technically the City of Thunder Bay did not exist when Highway 61 was built in the early twenties. It was cobbled together in 1970 with the merger of the communities of Fort William, Port Arthur, Neebing, and McIntyre, and it showed. It sprawled over 131 square miles, which made it larger than St. Paul and Minneapolis combined, if that’s how you measure size. It didn’t have a central business or residential district, but it did have two downtowns, and while the Twin Cities had built up, Thunder Bay built out, so it was mostly flat. I didn’t see a single building that was more than five stories high and precious few of those. One of the five-story buildings was the Prince Arthur Hotel.

The Prince Arthur was located in what had once been downtown Port Arthur. It certainly seemed impressive from the outside. I didn’t venture inside despite the cold. Instead, I parked in the hotel’s lot, hoping the Cherokee would not be towed away as threatened by the sign next to the entrance, and crossed to the pedestrian bridge leading to Marina Park. It was my intention to retrace Jason Truhler’s steps, although I had no idea what that would tell me.

The bridge was enclosed, its walls covered by city-sanctioned graffiti, so I did not feel the bite of the brisk wind until I reached the concrete zigzag ramp at the far end. The grass and flower beds were coated in a thin layer of frost, but the park’s sidewalks were dry and clean. So were the bowl, ramps, and railings where the skateboarders performed their death-defying stunts, although there were none while I was there. Only a handful of boats remained at their slips in the marina, and the restaurant and stores of the converted railroad station to my right were closed for the season. I stood looking out at Lake Superior. The steel-tinted water, the wind-whipped waves, and the snow-dusted Sleeping Giant in the distance would have made me shiver even if it hadn’t been so cold.

I zipped my jacket to my throat and made my way to the second pedestrian bridge, the one that separated the marina from the park. Truhler had said there was a fountain, but that, too, had been shut down. There were no ducks to be seen, either. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I turned to face the Prince Arthur. It certainly was possible for someone to pick a mark out of the crowd, possible to carefully study him while he crossed the pedestrian bridge and descended the ramp, possible to accost him before he could reach the blues festival. I didn’t think that was what happened, but it could have.

I followed the concrete sidewalk to where Truhler would have entered the park. It didn’t take long to locate a knoll facing the empty bandshell where he and the girl might have set up their chairs. I had not been to the Thunder Bay Blues Festival; however, I have been a frequent visitor to the Bayfront Blues Festival in Duluth, and I knew how it worked. The entire area is enclosed within a temporary fence lined with canvas to discourage non-ticket-holders. (’Course, you can’t do much about the music; when the wind is blowing right, you can clearly hear the Bayfront blues in downtown Duluth.) There are no ushers, no fixed seats, and no bleachers. Spectators are encouraged to set up their chairs or spread out their blankets wherever they think they have a clear view of the stage. Enclaves form; friends signal to each other with all manner of colorful flags, banners, pennants, ensigns, and kites. My favorite was a street sign that proclaimed the intersection of Three Chords and the Truth. Any aisles that form in this throng are purely accidental, making it virtually impossible to move about without being seen by thousands of witnesses. Of course, there is a difference between being seen and being noticed. An asphalt roadway—Marina Park Drive—bordered the rear of the park not far from the knoll. It occurred to me that a couple of guys could have helped their apparently drunken friend from his chair on the knoll, out the gate to a waiting vehicle, and driven off without anyone being alarmed. I didn’t believe that was what happened, but it could have.

I returned to my Jeep Cherokee and drove slowly north on Cumberland, passing all the landmarks that Truhler had mentioned. Eventually I found the Chalet Motel and pulled into the parking lot—it was exactly 3.9 miles from the Prince Arthur according to my odometer. The Chalet was two stories high with all of the room doors facing Cumberland. Looking out the windshield, I could see the number 34 printed in gold on a door located midway along the second-floor balcony. I told myself that a couple of guys might have been able to help their drunken friend out of a vehicle in the parking lot and carry him up the staircase, along the balcony, and into room 34 without being noticed by any of the Chalet’s guests or management. I didn’t believe it happened that way, either—but yeah, it could have.

*   *   *

It was a small office and cramped. There was a table with a half-full coffeepot, sugar cubes, nondairy creamer, and foam plastic cups against one wall, the table flanked by two chairs. On the opposite wall was a rack filled with slick tourist brochures. Between them was a high counter topped with even more brochures. It could have been the waiting room for an auto repair shop for all the ambience it evoked.

A small, thin man dressed in a white short-sleeve shirt that was buttoned to the throat greeted me. His complexion and accent suggested India or maybe Pakistan. He had been sitting behind the counter and watching a TV about the size of a hardback novel. He turned off the TV and stood when I entered.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Daniel. How may we accommodate you?”

I liked how he said that—accommodate.

“Good afternoon, Daniel,” I said. “I’d like accommodations for the night.”

“Single occupancy?”

“Yes.”

Daniel opened a drawer and retrieved a registration form. He placed both it and a pen on the counter in front of me and requested that I fill it out. The form had blanks for the usual information, including the license plate number of my vehicle.

“Please, I will need to see a credit card and a photo ID,” he said.

I gave him both.

“Do you require a credit card from all of your customers?” I asked.

“It is policy. You may pay in cash if you like.” It seemed important to him that I know that. “But we require a credit card also.”

“In case there is damage to the room or I try to skip out on the bill,” I said.

“It is so.”

I offered my hand. “I’m McKenzie.”

The manager shook it without hesitation. “Daniel Khawaja.”

“Khawaja. It that Pakistani?”

“It is a Kashmiri name. Kashmir is claimed by Pakistan, India, and China, so the choice is yours. I prefer to believe it is a Canadian name.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Since I was a boy. My parents emigrated just in time to vote for the city’s new name following amalgamation. They preferred Lakehead. Thunder Bay won by five hundred votes.”

“This was in the sixties?”

“Nineteen sixty-nine.”

Daniel processed my card. While he did, I turned to the rack. There were brochures for an amethyst mine, the longest suspension bridge in Canada, Fort William Historical Park, the Sleeping Giant, Kakabeka Falls, and a dozen additional tourist attractions. I seized the one promoting the Thunder Bay Blues Festival.

“This looks like fun,” I said.

“It is the biggest event of the year.”

“Really?”

“All the motels will be filled. If you want a room, you must register in advance.”

“How far in advance?”

Daniel thought about it for a moment, then said, “At least a month and a half. Sometimes sooner.”

“Is that right?”

“It is so.”

Daniel gave me a credit card receipt to sign and slid a key across the counter, not an electronic card like most motels and hotels use, but an actual key attached to a plastic tag with the number 15 embossed on it. I left it where it was.

“I’d prefer room thirty-four if possible.”

I saw it—the slight flinch, the whites of Daniel’s eyes widening. The signs were just barely detectable, and probably I would have missed them if I hadn’t been watching intently.

“Room thirty-four?” he asked. His voice was calm and unaffected. He did not look away.

“It’s my lucky number.”

“Lucky number?”

“It’s the number Kirby Puckett wore.”

“I do not know this Kirby Puckett.”

“He played center field for the Minnesota Twins when they won the World Series in ’87 and ’91.”

Daniel shook his head.

“Baseball,” I said.

“Ahh. The baseball. I follow the hockey.”

Well,
my inner voice reminded me,
it is Canada.

“We have the Fort William North Stars,” Daniel said. “It is Junior A hockey.”

“We used to have the Minnesota North Stars until they moved to Dallas. Now we have the Minnesota Wild.”

“I wish we had a professional hockey team.”

I flashed on the Wild’s record over the past decade.

“So do we,” I said.

Daniel covered the key with his hand and slowly slid it off the counter. He replaced it a moment later with number 34.