EXHIBIT D

Ford, Minnesota

Slightly earlier on Thursday, 13 September^[27]

Violet gets bored of hanging out in McQuillen’s waiting room, reading Time from six months ago and Field & Stream from who gives a shit. It’s not that she doesn’t sympathize with hunters: she understands people’s need to pretend the world’s still full of resource-intensive animals they can party-kill out of fucked-up rage, just like she understands people’s need to reenact the Civil War because they don’t like the way that turned out. The problem is that the two groups overlap so heavily.

Violet’s pretty sure she remembers seeing a bar a ways down Rogers Avenue from Debbie’s Diner. McQuillen definitely mentioned one. And she’s pretty sure she can take a more direct route than Azimuth did driving here. Cut out some distance and avoid the restaurant at the same time. No reason not to walk.

She uses the yellowing prescription pad on the receptionist’s desk to write Azimuth a note, which she leaves under the car keys. Turns the desk lamp on and the room light off so he won’t miss it.

★★★

It’s gotten dark out, sliver moon over the lake but everything inland mostly blackness with occasional streetlights. The chill and the smell of woodsmoke remind her of Halloweens back in Lawrence. She can see her breath.

She figures it’s about fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Which—the Fahrenheit part—pisses her off. Violet will never be able to instinctively judge temperatures in Celsius. She wasn’t raised to. And being raised without the metric system is like being raised with a harness on your brain.

In metric, one milliliter of water occupies one cubic centimeter, weighs one gram, and requires one calorie of energy to heat up by one degree centigrade—which is 1 percent of the difference between its freezing point and its boiling point. An amount of hydrogen weighing the same amount has exactly one mole of atoms in it.

Whereas in the American system, the answer to “How much energy does it take to boil a room-temperature gallon of water?” is “Go fuck yourself,” because you can’t directly relate any of those quantities.

Violet decides that while her watch face is still glowing, she should calculate the temperature using cricket noises. Because the equation she knows for that—like most equations she knows—is in metric.

By cricket it’s ten degrees centigrade out. Which by conversion is fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

It gets her off the porch. Whatever’s out there is better than thinking about this bullshit.

★★★

Whatever’s out there is pretty damn eerie, though.

Past the three-blocks-long fancy district, the number of streetlights drops off sharply. Most of the houses don’t have lights on either, and a lot of the ones that do have papered-over windows for no reason Violet can guess. The small boats in some of the driveways are mummified in blue tarps and chains, with the chains spiked to cement blocks. Everything she passes has a “FOR SALE” sign on it.

For a while she can hear what sounds like a Tom Petty album playing somewhere ahead of her, but the source, when she reaches it, turns out to be the open front door of a house with all its lights off. Later, what seem at first to be red flares on the horizon resolve into the cigarette tips of a ring of people standing in the middle of the street, talking in murmurs.

No reason for them not to be in the middle of the street, Violet supposes. There aren’t sidewalks here, just loud gravel shoulders, and she has yet to see a car.

Still, she circles the smokers without alerting them, half expecting them to put their faces into the air and start sniffing for her.

★★★

The bar turns out to be four blocks past Debbie’s. It’s called Sherry’s—raising the possibility, Violet supposes, that if she goes inside, a woman named Sherry will come after her with an ax. Worth the risk.

Inside, it’s a deep, narrow space of dark wood and Christmas lights, with only four stools and two people: the bartender and, on the left-most stool, one customer.

Both are males in their early thirties or so, which in Portland would make them hipster man-boys, but here means they’re grown men in practical haircuts who look like they’ve been through some shit. The bartender in particular has the electrocuted expression Violet associates with people who have been through rehab. The guy on the stool has the sloping back and lowered shoulders of a bear. They’re both big, and neither of them is leering.

Violet likes the big guys. The little ones always want to resent-fuck her. It may explain why Dr. Lionel Azimuth, with the forearms and the laugh like a garbage disposal, makes her want to take her bra off.

Or maybe nothing explains that.

She takes the right-most stool. Says “Got any interesting beer?”

“All beer is at least mildly interesting,” the guy on the other stool says.

Violet couldn’t agree more. Beer is the perfect population-overshoot scenario: you put a bunch of organisms into an enclosed space with more carbohydrates than they’ve ever seen before, then watch as they kill themselves off with their own waste products, in this case carbon dioxide and alcohol. Then you drink it.

“You mean like a hefeweizen or something?” the bartender says.

“Maybe not a hefeweizen per se.”

“I was just using that as an example.” He pokes through the refrigerator under the bar. “Doesn’t look too good. If you’re not from around here, you might find Grain Star interesting.”

The guy on the stool raises his bottle. Cool retro label.

“Sounds good.”

“Grain Star it is,” the bartender says.

“But what makes you think I’m not from around here?”

Both men laugh. “Saw this place in the Michelin guide, huh?”

“Yeah,” Violet says. “It was under ‘Bars in Ford that are actually open.’ ”

The bartender spins two St. Pauli Girl coasters onto the bar and puts a pint glass on one and a bottle on the other.^[28] The bottle steams water vapor when he opens it. “I don’t have St. Pauli Girl either,” the bartender says. “The coasters were here when I bought the place. I’m still going through them.”

“Then we should use them up,” Violet says. “One more for the bartender, please.”

“Thank you, but I’m a Diet Coke guy, myself.” The bartender raises his glass to show her, and Violet and the guy on the left-most stool lean to clink it with their bottles. Violet’s liking this place more and more.

“Not bad,” she says after she’s swallowed. Not good, particularly, either. Grain Star is sweet, thin, and metallic, though she supposes it’s unusual enough that you could form an attachment to it if you did something fun while you were drinking it.

Doesn’t seem too likely. Not unless Dr. Azimuth shows up and takes her to their hotel wanting to pull her hair from behind.

Violet didn’t just think that. She belches. Says “Fuck’s the matter with this place?”

The bartender and the guy on the stool trade glances. “There’s a couple good bars in Soudan you could check out,” the bartender says.

“I’m not talking about the bar,” Violet says. “The bar’s great. I’m talking about the town.”

“Oh, that,” the bartender says.

“Right. Ford,” the guy on the stool says.

“Yeah,” Violet says. “Ford.”

The guy on the stool says “Personally, I blame the mayor.”

“Most people do,” the bartender says.

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s something of a dickhead,” the guy on the stool says.

“Who hangs out with even bigger dickheads,” the bartender says.

“Who he makes look good by comparison.”

“He also inspires a lot of resentment.”

“Or so he likes to think.”

“What do you mean?” Violet says.

“We’re just fucking with you,” the guy on the stool says. He nods toward the bartender. “He’s the mayor.”

“And he owns the Speed Mart and the liquor store. Congratulations: you’ve just met the second- and third-biggest employers in Ford.”

“Nice to meet you. Who’s the first?”

“CFS. By a long shot.”

“Debbie employs more people than you or I do,” the guy on the stool says. “Unless by ‘employs’ you mean ‘pays them with money.’ ”

“Hey now,” the bartender says.

“You mean Debbie the psychopathic waitress?”

“You’ve met Debbie,” the guy on the stool says.

“Yeah. What’s her fucking problem?”

As he’s about to answer, the bartender says to Violet, “You wouldn’t happen to be an officer of the law, would you?”

“No.”

“No offense. It’s just that you look like someone from a TV show.”

“Oh, start. But no: I’m not an officer of the law. Either in reality or on a TV show.”

She watches them try to figure out how to politely ask her what she does do. “I’m a paleontologist.”

The guy on the stool turns to her. “Like in Jurassic Park?”

“Exactly like that.”

Although the only part of the Jurassic Park movie Violet now considers realistic is how everybody calls the male PhD “Dr. Grant” and the female PhD “Ellie,” she doesn’t mind the association. Both the book and the movie were instrumental in her choice of career. And they’ve turned paleontology into a job that everybody thinks, at least, they can relate to.

“I call bullshit,” the bartender says.

“I’ll show you my badge,” Violet says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s a badge for being a paleontologist. What’s wrong with Debbie?”

The two men look at each other. “Well… she’s had it rough,” the bartender says.

“That’s true,” the guy on the stool says.

“What happened?”

“She lost a kid a couple of years ago,” the bartender says.

“Shit,” Violet says.

“Which maybe isn’t an excuse for flipping out, but maybe it is.”

“Could well be,” the guy on the stool agrees.

“There were some kids behind her restaurant,” Violet says.

The bartender shakes his head. “The Boys just work for her. None of them is her son. She just had the one, Benjy.”

“What happened to him?”

The two men trade glances again.

“What?” Violet says.

The guy on the stool shrugs. “That’s… not all that clear.”

“What do you mean?”

After a moment, the bartender says “Benjy and his girlfriend got killed skinny-dipping in a place called White Lake.”

Violet almost chokes on beer.

“You’ve heard of it?” the bartender says.

“Yeah. How did they get killed?”

“Police ended up deciding they got cut up by a boat propeller.”

“But you don’t think that’s what happened?”

“It’s what the police decided.”

Violet studies them. “You guys are fucking with me again. You’re trying to make me think it was the monster.”

They stare at her.

“You’ve heard about William?” the guy on the stool says.

“William?”

“William, the White Lake Monster.”

“Okay,” Violet says. “First off, now I know you’re fucking with me. I’ve heard there’s a monster. I’ve never heard it was called William. Or that it killed people.”

Which means they have to be fucking with her. If there had been deaths at White Lake, Reggie Trager’s letter would have mentioned them, as advertising.

She pushes her empty beer bottle toward the bartender. “Second off, I need another one of these.”

“If you’re opening the fridge anyway,” the guy on the stool says.

“You people are so full of shit,” Violet says.

“Well,” the bartender says, digging through the refrigerator, “yes and no.”

★★★

Len unrolls a T-shirt on top of the bar. Len is the bartender. The guy on the stool is Brian. They all traded names before Len went back to the storeroom for the shirt.

It has a cartoon of a lake monster on it. Kind of an apatosaurus-plesiosaur mix, but with a smile and one raised eyebrow. Text underneath the creature says “Ford, Minnesota.” A speech bubble next to its head says “I’m a BILLiever!”

“You can keep it,” Len says. “I’ve got tons of these pieces of shit. I should use them for coasters. Just don’t wear it around Ford or you’ll start a riot.”

“Why?”

“People around here think that somehow agreeing to do the hoax caused all those people to die.”

“What do you mean, ‘all those people’?”

There’s a pause. “There were, uh, two other people who died too,” Brian O’ the Stool says.

“At White Lake?”

“Oh, no,” Len says. Like that’s ridiculous. “Chris Jr. and Father Podominick got shot. Around here.”

“So what does that have to do with it? I almost got shot around here today. Ford’s a dangerous place, Mr. Mayor.”

“I’ll relay your concerns to my chief of police.”

“Seriously: what does that have to do with White Lake?”

Brian says “The two guys who got shot—Chris Jr. and Father Podominick—were kind of the ones who had the idea for the hoax in the first place. And they got shot only five days after the kids died.”

Violet says “A priest had the idea for the hoax?”

Maybe there is a reason Reggie Trager chose to not get into this squalid shit. Four dead bodies, and anything at all having to do with a priest, and it starts to get creepy.

“Also, Chris Jr. was Autumn Semmel’s father.”

“Wait. What?”

Violet’s a bit drunk. That’s the joke about Violet Hurst: she’s a lightweight. Partly because of the antidepressants, which even if they don’t do shit else for her are worth it for that reason. She suspects, though, that right now she’d be confused even if she were sober.

Brian says “Autumn and Benjy died, and right after that Father Podominick and Autumn’s father got shot. So it did kind of seem like there might be a connection.”

“Yeah. I can see why it would.”

“You have to understand, though,” Len says, “the whole thing started out as a joke. I mean, look at the T-shirt.” He’s got a beer in his hand where the glass of Diet Coke used to be. Violet didn’t see the change.

“But the two guys who got shot,” she says. “If Debbie thought they were responsible for the hoax, and that her son somehow died because of the hoax, then why doesn’t everyone just assume Debbie shot them? Or had her Boys do it?”

Brian taps the side of his nose. Len, seeing it, says “Hey—come on. That’s just hearsay.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Brian says.

“Doesn’t mean it is.”

“Is it?” Violet says.

Len doesn’t answer.

Brian says “Don’t ask me. I’ve been shamed into silence.”

“I don’t think it is,” Len says finally. “She definitely didn’t have the Boys do it. She didn’t have them yet when it happened. And it’s kind of hard for me, at least, to picture Debbie doing something like that by herself. Plus, the person she really blames for the hoax is Reggie Trager. And as far as I know she’s never tried to kill him.”

“Why Reggie Trager?”

“Who knows? I’m sure he was involved—the whole town was involved. But I didn’t see him at any of the meetings, and I went to most of them. That’s another thing: nobody’s ever tried to kill me either.”

“I’m already dead inside,” Brian says.

“And,” Len says, “maybe Father Podominick and Chris Jr. getting shot didn’t have anything to do with Autumn and Benjy dying after all. Maybe someone mistook them for deer. Nobody knows, cause nobody knows who did it. Meanwhile everybody feels all guilty. Like it was our fault the monster turned out to be real.”

Violet replays that last bit in her head. “You’re saying the monster is real?”

Both men seem suddenly interested in the wood of the bar.

“Oh, come on. I’m not going to quote you.”

“Whatever happened to Benjy and Autumn,” Brian says quietly, “it wasn’t a boat propeller.”

“How do you know?”

“There were two other kids out there with them. Good kids, who everybody knew. They said there was no motorboat out there. That it was something else.”

“I’m listening.”

“They didn’t fully see it.”

“So what did they think it was? What do you guys think it was?”

“There’s a few different theories,” Len says, still not looking at her.

“I’m listening.”

“Look, a lot of it sounds pretty crazy.”

“Understood.”

“You know… like dinosaurs. Or—” He looks up at her. “Hey, is that why you’re here?”

“Only partly,” Violet says. “What are some of the other theories?”

“Well… something from space. Or this thing that the Ojibwe call a Wendigo. People have been seeing that thing forever.”

“What is it?”

“Some kind of Bigfoot-type thing.”

Brian says “I think—is it okay if I tell her what I think?”

Len says “Don’t be a dickwad.”

“I think it came out of the mine. You’re not going to believe this, but after the mine closed, the government sent a bunch of scientists down there to check it out. I’m not making this up: they were here in town. They came into the store a couple times. I think they were trying to trap it, but they couldn’t, and they ended up just pissing it off. Or waking it up. I’m not saying it wasn’t originally from space, or isn’t a dinosaur or a Wendigo or whatever. But I think before it moved to White Lake it was down in that mine for a long, long time. Maybe since before there were warm-blooded creatures up here for it to eat.”

When the door at the back of the bar bangs open, everyone jumps.

It’s Dr. Lionel Azimuth, coming down the aisle of the bar like a bowling ball. Scaring the shit out of Brian and Len even further.

Violet stands to meet him. “Hello, darling!”

She puts her arm through Azimuth’s and—swear to God, an accident—stumbles into him. It’s like stumbling into a telephone pole.

“We were just talking,” she says. “These people know about William.”

“Uh huh. Time to go home, dear.”

Violet leans close. Exhales wetly into his ear as she says “William the White Lake Monster.” Causing him to stiffen up, unclear whether from the information or her lips brushing his skin.

Brian and Len still look nervous. “Don’t mind him,” Violet says to them. “He’s a big square. He’s a doctor. He just doesn’t approve of my drinking.”

“You two know about the White Lake Monster?” Azimuth says to them. “About the hoax?”

“Uh…” Len says. Azimuth follows his eyes to the T-shirt on the bar.

Violet, wanting to spare Brian and Len having to go through it again, says “I’ll tell you about it in the car.”

“She’s not driving, right?” Len says.

“No,” Violet says, “she’s not. She walked here.”

Azimuth says “Okay. But one thing. What’s the name of the guy in the documentary who says he got his leg bitten off?”

Len and Brian look at each other.

“Charlie Brisson,” Len says.

“Thanks,” Azimuth says. “How much do we owe you?”

“It’s on me,” Len says. To Violet, he says “Just don’t forget your shirt.”