Excerpts

Prologue He shut down the motor and let the boat drift, one hand on his pole, the other grabbing his nearly empty beer. The late-­afternoon sun warmed his face and sparkled on the waves as the craft bobbed gently, nearly lulling him to sleep. He tossed his empty beer can on the floor, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and let his body relax. This tiny slice of bliss was why he came to Door County whenever he could. It restored his soul. There had been reports of people catching some good-­sized salmon in this part of Lake Michigan recently, and he recalled the eighteen-­pounder he'd caught last summer. Visions of a repeat performance excited him, but even if he didn't get a single bite, it was always worth the trip. As if the thought of a bite had sent a message into the deep, he felt a tug on his pole, hard enough that it nearly slipped from his hand. Adrenaline flooded his veins and he bolted up in his seat, tightening his grip automatically as he went to set the hook. But the line had gone limp. Disappointed but also rejuvenated by the fact that he'd come so close, he settled back into his seat, popped open another beer, and waited. An hour later he jerked awake, surprised that he'd dozed off. His pole was on the floor of the boat, and he picked it up, figuring it was time to give up and head in. It was getting late; the sun would be setting in another hour, and he didn't want to be out on Lake Michigan after dark in this sixteen-­foot skiff with no lights, the only rental he'd been able to get on such short notice. Not to mention that there was a bank of fog off in the distance that looked like it was headed his way, pushed along by a roiling bank of dark, menacing storm clouds. He realized the boat had drifted while he dozed, and it took a minute or two of studying the nearest landmarks before he guessed where he was. He started to reel in his line, but after only a few cranks, it went taut, zipping off the reel as something on the other end took the hook and made a run for it. Adrenaline shot through him, and he braced himself with his feet against the metal seat in front of him and let the line spin out, fearful it would break if he tried to stop it. Whatever was on the other end would tire soon enough, hopefully before the line ran out. Maybe he wouldn't go home empty-­handed after all. The wind gusted, whipping his hair into his eyes and sculpting the waves into treacherous hills and valleys of froth and foam. When he glanced over his shoulder, he was alarmed to see how much closer the fog and clouds had come in just the last minute or two. He decided to risk a grab for the spinning handle on his reel to try to stop the line, but it rapped his knuckles so hard that the skin split open on one of them, making him bleed. The boat bucked wildly as waves threatened to wash over the side, and he realized he was turned the wrong way. He grabbed for the reel handle again, succeeding in holding it that time, but the line continued stripping off the reel as he struggled to adjust the tension. Seconds later, the first tendril of fog snaked its way around his body, thick, cold, and wet. Thunder rumbled and the wind howled as the air temperature dropped about fifteen degrees in a matter of seconds. Whatever he had on the end of his line was now pulling hard enough to drag his boat through the waves. The fog fully enveloped him, a phantom of mist that draped everything around him, obscuring his surroundings, isolating him in the middle of a never-­ending thick grayness. He couldn't see more than three feet in any direction, and he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Panic kicked in and he glanced around for his flotation vest, saw it back by the motor. Cursing, he reached into his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife, using it to cut the fishing line. He tossed the pole into the bottom of the boat just as a huge wave washed over the side, nearly knocking him into the water. Fear and desperation caused another release of adrenaline, making his hands shake. He knew he had to reposition himself quickly so that the bow faced into the waves. Another big wave over the side like that last one would scuttle the boat, leaving him stranded out there in deadly waters. Grabbing the oars, he frantically tried to maneuver the boat into a better position to give himself time to crawl back to the motor and start it. The lake water began to roil crazily, bubbling and churning in a way he'd never seen. When he looked over the side, he saw two gleaming eyes rapidly rising from the depths toward him. He braced himself as terror flooded his veins. Something hit the boat hard from beneath and he was tossed over the side into the water. He thrashed about for a few seconds, trying to reach the surface, and when he did, he sucked in a panicked breath and looked around desperately for his boat. Waves crashed and broke over his head, seeming to come at him from every direction at once. He couldn't see his boat anywhere and he tried to swim, not caring or knowing which way he was going as the waves tossed him about. Then a huge wave crashed over him, dragging him under. He struggled to get back to the surface, to air, but something grabbed his arm and pulled him down. His frantic efforts to break free drained away the last of the fight in him, and as he sank down into darkness, those two glowing eyes were the last, terrifying things he saw. Chapter 1 I had just wiped some dust from Henry's hat (dusting him was a regular Saturday chore) and was cursing my decision to move his corpse closer to the entrance when the bell over the door tinkled. A man--­blond, fair skinned, and blue eyed, though a deep, dark blue rather than a pale, almost gray blue like my own eyes--­entered my bookstore, bringing a new crop of Wisconsin late-­summer dust in with him. He stopped a few feet in, staring at Henry's mummified body with horrified fascination. "Is that real?" he asked. "It is. Welcome to Odds and Ends," I said. "What oddity, mystery, or bit of magic can I find for you today?" I can often tell a lot about a person based simply on appearance, but this fellow was a bit of a puzzle. He looked to be around my age--­early to mid-­thirties--­and of average build. His hair was cut short and there was a slightly rigid, military bearing about him. He had on slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie, unusually formal apparel for mid-­August. It was the height of tourist season here in Door County and most of our customers arrived kicked back, relaxed, and dressed in summer casual. "I'm looking for a woman named Morgan Carter," he said, still staring at Henry. I liked his voice. It was even and mellow, though it lacked any discernible accent. "That would be me. How can I help?" He managed to tear his gaze from Henry and aimed a disconcerting level of scrutiny my way. "I . . . um . . . I've been told that you are something of an authority on strange things. Is that true?" He glanced at Henry again and I imagine he realized how silly that question was under the circumstances. "What sort of strangeness did you have in mind?" I asked with a chuckle. "Our store has a varied inventory." "I see that." His gaze shifted, breezing over the mystery books and settling on a nearby jewelry display. "Can I interest you in a necklace or perhaps a tie clip?" I suggested. I walked over and pointed to a pair of cuff links. "These are made from pig bone and there's a matching tie clip to go with them." "Uh, no, thank you," he said with a look of distaste. He turned back to Henry and stared at him. "Can I ask. . . ." He let the question hang there, but I knew what he wanted. "Sure, allow me to introduce you to Henry," I said with an arm flourish. "Rumor has it he was part of the Klondike gold rush at the end of the nineteenth century, heading up toward what's now Alaska in hopes of striking it rich. Instead, he fell into a crevasse and died there. Decades later, some indigenous folks came upon his mummified body still wearing the tatters of his mining clothes, and rather than leave him there or bury him, they carried him back to their community and sat him outside the entrance to one of their trading posts as an attraction. Kind of a reverse version of a cigar store Indian, I suppose. At some point, the body was treated with something that preserved it, but only after bits of it had fallen away. That's why he has no nose. Eventually, he was relegated to the dark corners of someone's attic until my dad found him on one of his trips to Alaska. He paid a ridiculous sum of money for the fellow, named him Henry, and brought him back here to the store, where he's been a mascot ever since." "Hunh," the fellow said, still staring at Henry. After a few seconds he looked at me and said, "Is there somewhere private we can talk?" "Private" made me nervous. My shop isn't your typical mystery bookstore, though I do have a vast collection of those, everything from the latest releases to some antique, valuable first editions. But I also sell all manner of peculiar, obscure, and eccentric items that sometimes appeal to folks of questionable character. I looked around for my employee, Rita Bosworth, who is generally easy to find because she's nearly six feet tall, always wears her white hair piled atop her head in a messy bun, and her glasses are attached to a chain of sparkling rhinestones that catch and reflect the overhead lights. The last time I had seen her, she had been shelving books, but she wasn't there any longer. I spotted her over in the creepy-­critters area, chatting with a customer near the skull collections. She must have sensed my unease because she looked my way and gave me a little nod, letting me know she'd keep an eye on me. Plus, I had Newt. I turned back to the man and that was when I saw the badge. He must have pulled it out of a pocket when I was looking for Rita. I eyed it closely to see if it was legit because last year I'd had a collection of antique police badges that had sold like hotcakes. The fact that he held it out for me to scrutinize until I was thoroughly satisfied reassured me. "We can chat in my office," I said, leading him to the room under the stairs that served that purpose. The space was small, and by the time the two of us and my dog, Newt, squeezed in there, it was uncomfortably close. There was a chair against the wall, and I gestured toward it while I scooted around behind my desk. Once the cop was seated, Newt positioned himself about two feet away and stared at him. "He's really big," the cop said, eyeing Newt uneasily. "Is he friendly?" "He's friendly if you are. He likes to analyze people and situations. That's what he's doing now, deciding if you're a good cop or a bad one." The fellow stared back at Newt, the furrows in his brow deepening. "Oh, and he doesn't like direct eye contact," I added. The cop quickly looked away, shifting nervously in his chair. I laughed. "I'm kidding. His name is Newt and he's a sweetie pie." "Newt?" the cop said, and I couldn't tell if he was talking to the dog or questioning his name. "Yeah, short for Newton because he just dropped in on me one day, kind of like Newton's apple. Plus, he's wicked smart." "Does he always stare at people like that?" "He does. It's because he can't see well. His other senses are incredibly keen, though. There are times when he stares at me, and I swear he's reading my mind. When he first showed up here, he was thin as a rail, bedraggled, and bloodied. I think someone tried to use him in an illegal dogfight, thinking he'd be tough because of his size, but he doesn't have the temperament for it. He really is a sweetheart. I had his DNA tested and it turns out he's Labrador retriever, Saint Bernard, and golden retriever with a tiny bit of Anatolian shepherd thrown into the mix." The cop relaxed some and gave me an awkward smile, though he kept giving Newt a nervous side-­eye every few seconds. I can't say I blamed him; Newt's stare can be quite disconcerting. "Now you know my dog's name as well as mine," I said. "Might you return the favor?" "Oh, geez, right. Sorry," he said, looking contrite. "I suppose I should have led with that. My name is Jon Flanders. I'm the chief of police on Washington Island." I didn't know if he expected me to be impressed with his title, but I wasn't much. Washington Island had a police force of three. One of them had to be the chief. "What can I do for you, Chief Flanders?" "I've been told you're a cryptozoologist." I paused for a beat and then said, "I am." "I confess, I didn't know that was a real occupation until recently." "You're not alone. And it can be a bit of a grab bag," I admitted. "However, unlike the many con artists out there who are eager to take money from gullible people, I consider myself a professional. I have degrees in both biology and zoology, as well as minors in religions and mysticism. I'm also a professional skeptic. While I'm certain there are lots of interesting things in the world that we have yet to discover, I'd need absolute proof before I'd believe in the existence of a cryptid." "A cryptid?" "A creature that people say exists even though no definitive proof bears that out. Like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot." "Oh, right. Yes. That's exactly what we need," he said. "A skeptic." This piqued my curiosity. The folks who hire me as a consultant cryptozoologist are typically looking for validation, not skepticism. "Who is this we you're referring to?" Flanders shrugged. "A political figure, a couple of business owners, law enforcement, the DNR." It seemed an odd combo to me, particularly the inclusion of the Department of Natural Resources. "What is it you want from me?" "We're hoping you can help us determine what happened to a body we have in the morgue." "Isn't that what an autopsy is for?" "The official word out there right now is that our victim drowned in a boating accident. But the medical examiner in Milwaukee is a bit stymied because this fellow's injuries are . . . unusual." "I'm no expert on forensic pathology," I told him. "That's not what we're looking for." He sighed, giving Newt another side-­eye glance. "We need someone who thinks . . . outside the box." "Okay," I said. "Where was this man when he died and sustained these unusual injuries?" "We aren't sure. Based on what he told the boat rental shop, he was planning on fishing between Gills Rock and Washington Island." "Porte des Morts," I said with an appreciative nod. "Death's Door." Excerpted from A Death in Door County by Annelise Ryan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.