Chip said, and then he called after her. “Weren’t you going to try out that new bathing suit? Or are you afraid of the lake monster?”
“The only monster I want to tackle is Mrs. Jackson,” his father said. “I’ll be sure to get in touch with her from Westport tomorrow. Then I’ll let her know what I think of her dream cottage.”
Despite his threat, the tea seemed to have calmed Mr. Mallory. A few minutes later a somewhat chastened Lee returned, still sullen but also calmer. The four of them unpacked some necessities from the car. By the time they had completed a cursory tidy-up of the cottage and set up their bedrooms, they were hungry. Given the filth of the cabin, though, they decided to stick with the sandwiches they had left over from lunch.
“We can find a breakfast place tomorrow,” Mrs. Mallory said. “Anyone for a walk?”
“I’m going to watch a movie,” her husband told her. “I just want to escape from this wonderful nature we’ve all been looking forward to.”
“Me too,” said Lee. “It’s humiliating that our cellphones don’t work. But the batteries on my player do, and for now I’m crashing in the car.”
“It’s too hot for a walk, Mum. Why not go for a swim?”
“Good idea. You coming down to the dock?”
“Why not? We’ve got plenty of bug spray, don’t we?”
4
Strange Visitors
The swimming, however, was not much fun. The water was dark and murky, and Chip found it far too soupy warm. Reeds grew everywhere around the rickety dock, and when his feet touched bottom he seemed to be standing in a kind of goo. He gave up when a sharp stone half-buried in the oozing mud cut his foot.
“We’ll have to put some disinfectant on that,” his mother said, examining the wound. “I guess we should call it a day — if you can call it a day. This place really is a turn-off. And to think I was going to bring along my old watercolour set. ‘Inspired by nature’ — that’s a joke!”
They walked back toward the cabin, Chip limping a little, but busily swatting at deer flies, which zoomed in without relenting. The sky was glooming over now, dark clouds drifting in from the west, a light wind ruffling the water. The lake seemed less inviting than ever, and the nearby treed islands looked dark and impenetrable. Chip caught sight of Lee in the car, engrossed in her movie. His father sat close by under some improvised netting; he too seemed wrapped up in his technology.
The roar of an engine sounded nearby. A battered old red Chevy bumped down the dusty road and approached the cottage. It rumbled up the track and pulled in behind the SUV. Lee glanced lazily over her shoulder; Mr. Mallory slipped off his earphones and stood up inside the netting.
Two men emerged from the car and stood there, sniffing and coughing. They glanced sourly at the SUV and its occupants, then fixed their hostile stares on Chip and Anne Mallory as they approached. One of the men was tall and muscular, with brawny bare arms, and a dark beard that hung down over his red-checked hunting shirt. The other was stocky and handsome, but smirking and shifty-eyed, with unruly sprouting hair, outdated jeans, and a yellow T-shirt. He looked like some sixties country singer who’d just stepped out of a time warp, and he kept shooting wary glances at Mr. Mallory and Chip, while casting intermittent sly ones at his partner.
The two men waited, their big boots planted in the driveway, while Mr. Mallory emerged from the mosquito netting, and Chip limped up and stood beside him. One look at the pair had convinced Mrs. Mallory to head for the cabin.
“Afternoon,” Mr. Mallory greeted them. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“G’day, sir,” said the big man, tugging at his red shirt. He seemed impervious to subtleties of address, Chip thought, but at least his dad’s “gentlemen” had forced a “sir” out of him. The shorter man had obviously picked up on the social dynamics at once and his sensitive lips twisted unpleasantly.
“Me and my partner here was just passing by and we saw your car,” the big man continued. “Nice vehicle, by the way. BMW, eh? One of them expensive European jobs. Must be some upkeep on it. Just renting the cottage here, are you?”
“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
