Last summer, while I was off of work and Marvin was recovering, he and I went back to some of those places. They were great, but nothing beat the simplicity of Schaeffer Lake in September. Forty minutes from Mason Falls, but it might as well be a million miles away.

As we drove, I found the number of a guy we’d rented a boat from before, and called him up. He told us a dock to meet him at, and I handed the phone to Marvin, who listened for directions.

When I was five minutes away, I pulled into a QuikTrip and grabbed some supplies. A bag of ice. Two bags of jerky. A sixer of Dr Pepper and some Doritos. Man food.

I dropped Marvin by the boat dock with our gear and found parking farther down the road. By the time I walked back, I saw Harry Glavis, who owned the boat, helping Marvin aboard.

“Harry.” I nodded, motioning at the eighteen-foot aluminum speedboat with two swivel-seats. “This is nice.”

Harry was in his late sixties and bald, a former dentist. The boat was a Tracker Pro Team, and was newer than anything he’d rented us before.

“Same price as last time, Detective Marsh,” he said.

Harry had an adenoidal accent, and every word was thick and seemed to emanate from deep within his nose. “It’s available,” he said. “So I figured—what the hell. Law enforcement discount, right?”

Marvin sat down in the seat beside the helm, and I stepped aboard. My father-in-law was wearing what his daughters used to call his high-water pants.

“I got a credit card on file for you. Want me to use that?”

“That’s perfect,” I said.

The boat was black with a silver pinstripe, and it sported all the bells and whistles. A fish finder, dual rod boxes, and a deep tackle storage area. Stuff that usually didn’t come with the boats we rented.

Harry took a duffel that was on the boat dock beside him. Tossed it onto a houseboat that was parked just the other side of the dock. I pressed the button, and the speedboat’s engine purred. A hundred-and-fifty horsepower, but whisper quiet.

“That yours too?” I motioned at the houseboat.

I’d heard grumbling that Harry was sort of a boat-carpetbagger in the area. That he’d retired with money and bought vessels from folks for a song when they hit hard times.

“Just got it last night.” He smiled proudly. “Some tourist from New York bought a house up here on the lake, but never moved in.”

The houseboat was maybe twenty feet long, with space for two people to live, and two tiny decks.

“You wanted the Tracker, right?”

Harry smiled like a cat, and I could feel an upsell coming.

“This is plenty of boat for us,” I said, and grabbed a life jacket. Held it out to Marvin, who begrudgingly put the bulky thing over his tiny frame.

We waved goodbye to Harry and throttled off, moving slowly into the big water.