by Chuck Logan
160 / CHUCK LOGAN
If only the trees out there that morning could talk. You could try and try and you’d never understand all the detail in a tree, all the gnarls and turns and subtlety of foliage.
The insides of people were like trees. You could never see it all.
Harry drove toward the lights of Stanley, turned off the highway, and made a run down Main Street. Like bad omens, a festive crepe of red and green Christmas decorations draped the street and the lights burned in the Camp Funeral Home.
He rolled down the window and let the pure oxygen suck the city from his lungs. Not even the murmur of Superior broke the vast snow quiet, and soft woodsmoke chains drifted up and moored the little town to the icy northern stars. And somebody in this peaceful illusion had a reason, and enough influence, to get Chris Deucette to pull that trigger? Emery, out of jealousy? Jesse certainly, for the money. But Jay Cox was the wild card. Where did he fit?
He pulled in back of City Hall and parked in front of the liquor store. A trio of Indian winos stamped their feet next to the door.
Going in, Harry threw them a snappy fraternal salute.
He bought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, then went to the pay phone next to the entrance, dug in his wallet, found Reverend Karson’s card, and called the residence number.
A woman answered. “Uh, he’s meeting with some people,” she said.
“This is Harry Griffin. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Subdued conversation carried over the connection. “Harry,” said Karson, “this is bad timing. I’m preparing a funeral service. Where are you?”
“I’ll be staying out at Maston’s lodge for a while.”
“I see—”
“I need a favor, padre.”
“Uh, let me take this in the basement on another line,” said Karson.
A minute later, Karson’s voice came back on. “Martha, would you hang up the upstairs phone, please.”
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“Martha your wife?” asked Harry.
“We are used to dealing in confidences in this house. My wife is part of my ministry in that respect.” He paused. “Where’s Bud?”
“Tucked away in a CD ward in the city.”
“You shouldn’t be up here.”
“Why? You said I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Karson exhaled. “What do you want, Harry?”
“I want to know about Jay Cox. I need his birthday and Social Security number—”
“Is this for a story? The newspaper?” Karson’s apprehensive voice turned curious.
“No, no. Just me. I’m on vacation, making sure nobody rips off Maston’s house.”
“Vacation? My God. Uh, I know Cox. Not well—”
“He’s a real sweetheart, isn’t he?”
“Look, I don’t think I should say anything directly about Cox.”
“Hey, padre. I thought you were the local good guy.”
Silence on the line.
Harry tried again. “I wouldn’t want you to say anything directly.
Indirectly would be fine.”
More silence. “After the funeral, Harry,” said Karson. He hung up the phone.
The preacher was scared.
28
Harry wheeled into the lodge drive and Jay Cox froze in the headlights, stooped under the weight of an outboard motor he was lifting into the back of his truck. Harry left the brights on and got out.
“Put it down and clear off the property!”
Cox’s face was a fistful of witch doctor bones in the harsh glare.
Watch yourself. They line up right and you’re dead, brother.
“Who’re you? Maston’s idea of a joke?” Cox grimaced as 162 / CHUCK LOGAN
he heaved the motor into the bed of the truck and bent down for a can of gas. “She talked to a lawyer. She’s got a right to half of everything new in that pole barn.”
“Get her lawyer to convince a judge. Till then, everything stays.”
They started to circle and Harry tried to keep the lights at his back, in Cox’s face. Basic math. Cox went around six-one and two hundred pounds. An inch and twenty pounds on Harry. A real hard twenty pounds.
Box him, wear him out. Who was he kidding? He hadn’t been in a real fight for twenty years. Cox was a brawler who’d close and break him in his powerful hands. Old street wisdom. Crazy covers tough. Harry looked around for an equalizer as their breath came in taut, white jets.
Cox bared his teeth. “Maston thinks he’s pretty smart, bringing you up here. You threw me for a minute but you’re just a game,” he was talking himself into a rage, “just a soft-handed city guy. Go back down there and do whatever you do in some office. I’m only going to warn you once. This ain’t your affair,” he growled.
Harry wore a crazy grin as he stepped into the jerky pins-and-needles of a fight and felt his way toward the first punch. He reached over, seized the stem of the outboard motor and, with a shift of his weight, toppled the motor off the tailgate. Cox backed out of the way.
“You’re asking for it. I ain’t opposed to beating up on crazy people,” Cox warned. He slid sideways toward a big chainsaw sitting on a stump.
Cox’s eyes darted and he started for the chainsaw. Harry, faster, cut him off, scooped the big red Jonsrud up by the handle, hoped it had gas in it, and flicked the switch.
He balanced on the balls of his feet, the saw casually in front of him, one hand on the handle, one hand gripping the ripcord. Careful.
Don’t get gas on your new suit.
“I always wondered,” he shouted to keep his voice from shaking.
“Put one of these to a big new radial tire. Would it go hiss or would it go bang?” he yanked the cord and the saw
HUNTER’S MOON / 163
whirred alive. He let the blade fall in a lazy are that stopped an inch from a rear truck tire.
“Watch it there, goddamnit,” Cox yelled, genuinely alarmed for his truck. “Those things are tricky.”
The rage in Cox’s eyes raced in a loop, as trapped as the necklace of steel teeth whipping around the chain bar. Might have to fight this man, but not tonight. He stepped back to give Cox room to walk to his truck.
Up close, in the brilliant headlights, Cox looked spooky as hell, but no longer scary. He looked…old. Tired. Breathing heavily with the strain of this confrontation.
For a moment they panted, measuring each other. Harry percol-ated with fear, but he knew it would vanish at the first blow. Cox’s hooded eyes showed confusion. Dry-mouthed vacant pain.
Harry cut off the saw and put it to the ground. He lowered his eyes and stepped back to let Cox leave.
Cox hauled himself up, one hand on a big mirror bracket, and opened the door of his truck. When the door opened, the interior light came on and Harry saw the butt of a deer rifle half out of the case suspended in the gun rack over the seat.
I need a gun.
Cox snarled, “You don’t scare me, you fucking faggot!”
Harry folded his arms across his chest.
Cox backed out of the driveway, one eye on his rearview mirror, the other on Harry. When the sound of the truck faded down the highway, Harry took out Bud’s key ring and went to the lodge.
He expected more of a mess. A tall stepladder was tipped over in front of the fireplace in a pile of sawdust and, like Bud said, the bowsprit carving had been removed from the beams above the fireplace. The new furniture in the den was gone, but the sound system, TV, computer, and trestle table remained. The bookshelves were undisturbed. The kitchen was tidy, the silverware still lined up in the drawers.
164 / CHUCK LOGAN
The head and one paw of Sheriff Emery’s bearskin dangled off the wall. Above it, someone had written in garish green spray paint: BUD IS A FUCKER!
He changed into jeans and boots and approached the sturdy oak gun cabinet next to the fireplace and found the heavy lock un-tampered with. Opening it, he saw a double-barreled shotgun, a 12-gauge pump, and an old leve
r-action .45-70 rifle. Ammunition was stacked in the drawer at the bottom of the rack. And something wrapped in a chamois cloth. A military Colt .45.
He pulled out the beautifully restored old Remington 12-gauge, searched in the drawer, opened a box of double-ought buck shells, and loaded it.
Back outside, he looked around. Nothing but the wind in the pines. Keeping the shotgun close at hand, he opened the pole barn, moved the pile of tools that Cox had assembled back inside, closed the sliding door, and locked it. Then he walked a slow circuit of the lodge grounds and paused to listen at the road. Convinced that Cox was gone, he switched on a flashlight and started cautiously down the trail between the log cabins toward the snowmobile trail.
He came to the frozen remnants of Becky’s ski tracks where they’d left the trail and gone overland. Slowly he paced them until he came to the place where Emery had stooped in thought. The crusted snow was pocked and wind-spoiled and the trail disappeared in the drifts.
Something moved. He shined the light into the thicket of pines and a sharp nasal snort—not human—brought him to tingling alertness. Something big in there. Harry backed away and retreated down the trail.
He started Bud’s Jeep in the garage under the addition. Almost full of gas and the tires looked all right. Then he took a look at the furnace and the fuse box and located three fire extinguishers.
Sleeping in one of the bedrooms was out. Too closed in. Averting his eyes from Chris’s room, he went into the master bedroom where Bud had slept with Jesse. A musky morning
HUNTER’S MOON / 165
scent, faintly perfumed, lingered in the stale air. The king-size mattress was bare, the dresser drawers pulled out and empty. Harry knelt to the floor in back of the bed and found spilled candle wax, some curls of incense, and several tiny, yellowed butts of marijuana cigarettes.
He dragged the mattress and box spring down the hall and positioned them in front of the fireplace. Then he heated water, searched the cupboards, and found some Lipton tea. With a hot mug of tea, he went to the desk in the den and methodically searched the drawers. Jesse said she kept books, seemed proud of it. Maybe there was something written down he could use to ID Cox.
Randall knew a lot of people. He had access to national databanks.
Government computers. Dorothy knew some cops in Minneapolis and St. Paul from her days as a reporter.
The desk drawers were empty except for envelopes and the Snowshoe Lodge letterhead and some floppy disks.
He switched on the IBM computer. Simple office software. He went through the floppies, opening files. Text for brochures. Correspondence. Projected rates for lodging and fishing parties. He turned off the computer and flipped on the FM tuner and spent an hour cleaning up the main room: put the stepladder out on the front porch, swept up the pile of sawdust, retacked the bearskin, and brought in some kindling from the pile on the porch.
Cleaning out the fireplace, he found a fried can of charcoal starter among the ashes. A thick plume of soot disfigured the mantle from where they’d burned the Goyas and the wall artifacts on the hearth.
Tilted on the endirons, a ferocious eye and gaping jaws leered from an unburned portion of the print that had hung in Chris’s room.
Harry built a fire and watched the flames consume the mad cannibal stare.
After a shower, he heated a can of Hormel chili from the cupboard and ate it with saltines.
He laid out his suit, flicked some lint from the jacket, and touched the divorce papers in the pocket. The new dress-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his shoes a little scuffed, but they’d do.
166 / CHUCK LOGAN
He poked at the fire and tried to figure Cox. The guy had a rope-toughness you don’t see on a white man unless he’s done serious jail time or seen a lot of combat, but Cox had acted with restraint.
He had been prepared to see Cox as Jesse’s blunt instrument. Now he seemed more the damaged tool.
Not afraid of you? Same line Chris had used the night before it happened. Lot of people shook up in the wake of the shooting.
Becky. Karson. Cox. Harry turned off the lamps and stared at the fire. What would Randall do in this situation?
Hell, Randall wouldn’t get into this scene in the first place.
White pencils of light flashed through the darkened lodge, threaded the woods. Snowmobiles, on the trail around the lake.
He jumped when the phone jangled.
Karson’s voice sounded like he’d been holding his breath since Harry hung up in the liquor store. “Ginny Hakala works at the Timber Cruiser Cafe. She used to go out with Cox.” He hung up.
Harry made a note of the name and cautioned himself. Take it one step at a time. He glanced at the whiskey bottle that sat on the dining room table.
Better make that one drink at a time.
Didn’t need it now. Would in the morning though. A couple shots to light the fuse.
He built up the fire, brought sheets, quilts and pillows, and made the bed. He checked the shotgun safety and placed it next to him on the mattress. The last cigarette of the day made an arc of sparks into the fireplace and Harry closed his eyes and exhaled, If I should die before I wake…
He drew up his knees and crossed his arms rigidly across his chest in the hopeful foxhole posture that attempted to cover his vital parts.
HUNTER’S MOON / 167
29
On Tuesday morning fog lay thick on Maston County.
The kind of day Randall used to call Hitler weather.
Harry meditated in reverse. Not to relax. To twist himself tight.
One by one, he detached the wires to faith, hope, and charity.
His plan was direct. Stir up the funeral with the divorce papers and watch the faces. The one with Freon in his veins, the one who had controlled Chris, might show himself—or herself. Look for the one who cracked first and go after him and get him to talk.
Get under the lie a few layers, then go back to Hakala and remind him that he had skipped impaneling a grand jury for self-serving reasons. Getting Bud in the hospital was the only deal Harry’d made.
So fuck a bunch of politicians.
Hell, man, you just want to see her.
He pushed the unsettling thought aside. It all came down to Jesse and whose bed she was rising from on this gloomy morning. She was the only one with the strength of will to plan cold-blooded murder for money…and behind her loomed the shadow of Larry Emery. They’d be together today to bury their trigger-happy son.
He padded to the bathroom, undressed, and twirled the nozzle on the shower faucet. When the water turned icy he braced both palms against the shower tile and counted to a hundred.
So screw their funeral.
Stark fluorescent light bounced off the tile and painted the scabs on his face livid purple in the mirror. As he shaved, he mentally downshifted. Have to operate in one forward gear. No second thoughts.
They started it. They weren’t the only ones who could play rough.
He sagged, splashed cold water on his face to clean off the lather, and inspected himself. Once he could have done it 168 / CHUCK LOGAN
without remorse. But then he was young and didn’t feel things.
Whole town might be there. Jesse, Emery, Cox, and Hakala for sure. Karson. Becky. Be walking across their graves. Their history.
He dressed, remembering Emery’s cold parting promise. “We’ll meet again, motherfucker.” His fingers shook as he tried to knot his tie and he stared at his shivering hands.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t kid himself about why he needed a drink. Minnesota Harry couldn’t do it. Detroit Harry could.
The bottle and the empty glass waited on the dining room table.
You don’t see this through you’ll be carrying that dead kid on your back as a question mark your whole goddamn life. He poured the glass full and let it run down his throat and into his caged places.
Steady now, with a Jack Daniel’s snap, crackle, and pop in his fingertips,
the tie flew into place. He transferred the divorce papers into the inside pocket of his jacket. Drive Bud’s Jeep. It was black, like his suit.
The digital clock in the Jeep dashboard read 10:30. Plenty of time to stop for breakfast at the Timber Cruiser Cafe and check out this Ginny. Slowly he drove down Nanabozho Ridge.
Twelve deer carcasses dangled by their antlers from the big maple beside the General Store. Beads of frozen blood clung to the matted hair along the gutted bellies and twinkled in his low beams. Harry drove on, prowled into Stanley, and went looking for the Lutheran church.
Trinity Lutheran was an obstinate, red brick fist, its steeple hidden in the fog. He found it just past the Hakala Lumberyard, north of the business district, on a cape of compacted liver-colored shingle that formed the north shoulder of Stanley’s harbor. He rolled down his window.
An organ played “Nearer My God to Thee” and the sound turned with the waves that broke against the granite boulders to either side.
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Trucks, snowmobiles, and four-by-fours crowded the parking lot.
Jay Cox’s big rig—scrubbed clean—sat in front of the hearse. A county sheriff’s Blazer was parked in front of the truck.
He continued down the road that led out to the end of the jetty and a sign materialized in his lights: MASTON COUNTY HISTORICAL
SOCIETY. Harry squinted to make out the nebulous mass of a two-story, pillared building. A figure appeared in the mist and he slowed.
The woman wore a pleated black skirt and a black sweater. She had prominent cheekbones and graying raven hair pulled tight along her skull and the erect carriage of an elderly ballerina. She was attaching an American flag to a pole and raised her hand to her forehead and peered into his lights. Then she hoisted the flag and walked to the church.
Harry made a U-turn and drove back toward the glow of town.
The brightest lights came from the plate-glass windows of the Timber Cruiser Cafe. After he parked, he paused at the door. He’d be able to see the cortege headlights when they left the church parking lot.
The cafe’s rough-hewn beams and crannies leaked an aroma of cigar smoke, meat and gravy, of jokes told. A Fisher wood stove in the center of the room pumped out heat. Double-bladed axes, two-handed logging saws, and mounted bucks thronged the walls.
