Donovan and Mickey were climbing to the pilot house on the upper deck. A man in a dark blue uniform was already at the wheel. With only the six of them aboard, the excursion boat pulled away from the dock and headed out onto the smooth, lazy morning waters of the lake. Chunks of ice slid spinning past the bow. "We'd better go inside or we'll freeze, ma'am," Reuben suggested. The woman nodded and followed him into the enclosed passenger area.

Fifteen minutes into the cruise, Mickey descended to the lower deck with a cardboard box and a Thermos. "The galley ain't open," he said, "but we brought these things aboard with us." He peeled the top of the carton back to reveal doughnuts and three foam cups.

"Bless you," the woman said, sitting on a fiberglass bench. Ian picked two doughnuts and Reuben followed his example. Mickey poured steaming coffee as each held a cup. "Donovan tells me nobody knows what's out there," he said, capping the Thermos,

Reuben shook his head and dropped sprinkles of powdered sugar from his doughnut into the coffee.

"So what do we do if there's just water? Let you drown?"

"Something's out there," the woman said.

"I'm not doubting it. I just wish I didn't feel so damned creepy. Everything's gone to hell the last few months. Thank God it's not the season. No tourists. The President's going nuts. Whole world."

"Are you part of the network?" Ian asked.

Mickey shook his head. "Not me, thank God. Donovan is. He's told me about it, and he showed me the spider. Damned thing wouldn't bite me. Shows you what the hell I'm worth. I've thought about calling up the newspapers, but who would believe me? Who would care? Me and Donovan, we've worked the lakes for thirty years, first fishing smelt, then running geehawks—that's tourists—all around. I named this boat. It's a joke."

Nobody understood, so he cleared his throat. "I tell people, 'Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.' Remember that song? Ore tanker went down. Big wave or something broke its keel and it sank without a trace. But what the hell—geehawks don't know nothing about the lakes. They think lakes are puddles. These lakes are goddamned oceans, landlocked oceans. You could hide anything at the bottom, whole cities . . ." He glared at them for emphasis, one pencil-thiñ eyebrow raised. "So I've been thinking. No need to talk about what I've been thinking. I'll just let that sit with you, and with Donovan. If the goddamned spider doesn't bite me, sure I'll cooperate— he's my partner—but I say the hell with it, and with everything else."

He walked aft with the box and Thermos, shoulders twitching. The woman ate her single doughnut delicately, leaning her elbow against the back of the bench, watching him leave. "So what have you two been doing?" she asked, suddenly familiar and friendly.