by Chuck Logan
Well, there’s this part the night before the battle of Agincourt…when fear is all around…”
350 / CHUCK LOGAN
Bud’s voice rolled, rich, warm, baritone:
“His liberal eye doth give to every one,
thawing cold fear; that mean and gentle all
behold, as may umworthiness define,
a little touch of Harry in the night.
And so our scene must to the battle fly.”
It seemed that Bud laughed. It seemed that he bent down and kissed Harry on the lips.
57
It smelled like a dog had been rolling in guts and deep in his burning insides a little red fire engine of adrenaline managed to leave the station.
Slumped forward against the Jeep’s steering wheel. All sticky.
Vomit caked his throat and chest. Throwing up must have woke him up. Snow whirled against his face. Get up. Get up. He lurched and looked around. Car door was open, groaning in the wind. Snow blew all over the leather seat.
Eyes weren’t turned all the way on yet. Banging sound. Bang.
Bang.
Blood—felt like slick snot ropes of it on his jeans and something hard. The .45 made a steel cramp across his belly. He shuddered.
Sounded like a scream. Definitely a scream and the sound jellied his muscles and all the slipknots were sliding and Harry pissed his pants.
He gritted his teeth and willed his sphincter into a tight fist.
Light out Or was it? Tin-pan sun as pale as the moon in the snow, streaming past a grove of birch with long twisty trunks jointed like knuckle bones…
Sparks crashed inside his head. Eyes hooking up. Qkay. The banging sound was the door of Jay Cox’s trailer swinging in the wind. The scream came from…his own mouth.
He saw. Becky. She ran out the trailer door and fell to all HUNTER’S MOON / 351
fours. What the hell was she doing? Stuffing her mouth with snow.
Her nose. Trying to smother herself?
He was back in the fucking blood swamp with the jack-in-the-box and fear savaged him into focus and he fumbled the .45. Sniffed the breech. Inhaled the baked metal crisp of cordite. He took out the magazine, pushed his grisly finger against the spring-loaded bullets.
Three or four missing. Think? It had been full. Reloaded, pulled the charging handle. Used up all his dexterity.
Where was Bud? Harry took a deep breath and it popped open for him and he finally got the big joke.
He staggered from the Jeep. Cox’s truck was there. Jesse’s Escort.
Snow filling in other tire tracks. At least one other vehicle had pulled in, backed up, and turned around.
Stilts not feet. Sleepwalking past Becky…
She trembled violently. Couldn’t be helped. Her eyes plunged at the snowy woods, then at the trailer. Her lips made a silent O. No.
Harry turned his back on her. Saw Cox’s black cap and a bloody drag-trail in the snow that led to the trailer door. The pistol fell from his numb hand. He followed it, dropping comically on his rump.
He had a good smell of himself.
Retrieving the Colt with cardboard fingers…it felt like he was wearing gloves. Brushed away the snow. No gloves. Just more blood stiffening in the cold. He stared at the swinging trailer door. Thought Hakala had cops guarding her.
It was going to be real bad.
Go see. Unsteadily, he approached the trailer. In the door, swung the pistol in a clumsy uncoordinated arc. Radio on. Polka music.
Idiot sing-song accordion.
She had fought hard. The living room was in shambles. Table overturned. Cox’s pills were strewn on the carpet. On the hallway wall, leading to the bedroom, the stigmata of her bloody handprint.
The light was on.
His curse had always been to be at his best in the presence of horror. A battlefield stench scattered his drugged fog.
He bolted from the room and smashed the gun’s butt into 352 / CHUCK LOGAN
the radio. Then he closed the door on its creaking hinges. Silence.
Slowly, solemnly, he went back. SEE MEXICO. A gaudy confetti of travel brochures was glued wetly over the posed naked bodies.
Harry did not decipher rage on the smeared walls. Not even sickness. Something evil had played here and dumped her forward from the headboard in a final contraction over her own evisceration; legs spraddled, knees bent, her heels had been tucked into the stirrups of Cox’s collarbone.
Harry took a deep clarifying breath and saw the shovel on the floor. Bastard had used the entrenching tool on her. But the bloody fingerprints on the handle would belong to Detroit Harry. Don’t think about the handle.
Cox had been killed with two shots to the back of the head. Jesse…
The splintered shaft protruded between her legs. In his frenzy, the fucker’d snapped it off after he had hacked…
Harry touched the graying clay of Cox’s bicep, moved a strand of Jesse’s matted hair from the tattoo there. Bayonet piercing a heart: Death Before Dishonor.
He drew a sheet over their obscene posture and covered the hairy tongue of severed testicles that spilled from between Cox’s teeth.
North Vietnamese trick. Seen that one before.
Harry withdrew carefully, closed and latched the door. As he went out, the survival armor girdled him. Can’t feel it now, worry about the living. Becky.
Snowflakes pelted through the Jeep’s headlights. He stooped and picked up Cox’s hat with the Snoopy emblem as the cold pure air hit him like a whack of Zen.
Blind spots, Randall had cautioned.
Remember patterns.
He adapts, Jesse’d said. One seamless puppet show from the minute his phone rang early that morning. Bud propositioning Murphy for the story. You’re so predictable. Knew I’d shoot. Bringing in Linda, getting her up here so she could see him strung out. With this damn gun. And Karson at the lodge.
HUNTER’S MOON / 353
And he’d had plenty of time to drop in at his home, no problem with cops, and lift the computer disk and pictures.
Harry swung the .45 in a two-handed grip, scanning the snow-spangled trees. Not Emery. Wrong about Jesse too. Pushed her out the door straight into…
Raining shit and blood in a blacked-out Hell. They’d say he was drunk again and this time they’d say he murdered two people. He’d been here before to this terribly lonely place. But Randall had been there that time. Need Randall.
“Becky?” Damnit. Where was she? The Jeep beckoned, lights on, running in neutral. This was no place to be. He was a survivor. Time to boogie.
Not this time.
Couldn’t survive leaving her in there like that. More than dead.
Negated. Harry didn’t consider himself a Christian. But maybe she was. Sung in the choir…
First he washed his hands and took off his spattered shirt. Then he found a bucket under the sink and filled it with hot water. From the bathroom, he took clean towels, a washcloth, and a bar of her scented soap. He reentered the ghoulish room and threw back the sheet. Eased Cox from the bed and gently laid him on the floor. Put a blanket over him.
She’d always said he didn’t see her. He saw her now as he plucked scarabs of filth from her face and dealt with the shovel handle. He straightened her legs and did his best to tidy the wreckage of her stomach. Working with the patience that tenderness required, he washed her limbs, taking care to get between her fingers and her toes. When he was finished, he tucked a sheet to cover the worst and went back for a fresh cloth to cleanse her throat and face. Then he unknotted the ugliness from her hair and drew a brush through it. When it was done, he bent to close her eyes and some trapped water spilled from the open clouded iris and trickled down the stiffening cheek.
Harry turned out the light.
Too late, he realized there was another vehicle in the drive. A blue-and-white sheriff’s Blazer.
354 / CHUCK LOGAN
“Drop it! Don’t move! Swear to God I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!�
�� Jerry Hakala’s voice shook, about a foot behind Harry’s back.
Thing about snow. Made it easy for people to sneak up on you. Was like friendship…
Harry pulled the pistol from his belt. He didn’t drop it. “I saw through the window, you creepy fuck!” Jerry yelled. “Looks like a kill floor in there.”
“Where’s Emery, Jerry?”
“Spit my name out of your mouth, you fuck.”
“I mean you pulled the cops outta here when you spotted Emery,”
Harry said.
“Blood here’s not even cold. He didn’t do this, asshole. You did.”
“Jerry. I don’t want you to get any more excited. I’m not moving too good right now.”
“Drop the damn piece!”
Harry didn’t move. “Becky’s here somewhere,” he said.
“You sonofabitch,” Hakala hissed. Lynch law was in that voice.
Harry was betting Jerry wouldn’t shoot him in the back.
“I mean…alive. She was right out front here—”
“Put it down. I mean it.” Jerry’s voice wrapped tighter.
“Who tipped you, Jerry?”
“Maston came downtown looking for you. Said you were drinking, on the prod. Last chance, fucker.”
Jerry’s finger was probably down to the hot end of the trigger pull and Harry’s .45 was pointed at the ground. No way to even it. Jerry was going to shoot him. Shoot him the way he did everything; properly, by the book, three warnings followed by three rounds, center spine. Never find Bud this way. Reluctantly, Harry dropped the gun.
The blunt barrel of the Glock jammed in Harry’s right ear—hard.
“Okay, now lower yourself real slow. Down on your knees. Now lean forward. Put your head against the trailer. Arms behind your back. Lock the elbows. Lace your fingers. Now grab your hands together.”
Harry did as he was told. Awkwardly balanced forward, he heard the jingle of the cuffs coming off Jerry’s belt.
HUNTER’S MOON / 355
“Okay, fucker, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right—” Jerry stopped in midsentence.
“Yo, Jer!” A hard young voice. Tilting his head to the side, Harry saw a fluffy snowball splatter playfully on Jerry Hakala’s chest. Mitch Hakala, in his varsity jacket, stepped from behind the end of the trailer.
“Mitch? What the fuck?” Jerry blurted.
Mitch bent, scooped up snow, and packed another snowball.
“Get back,” ordered Jerry. “This is a fuckin’ crime scene.”
“No shit,” said Mitch, advancing, casually slinging the snowball.
Jerry ducked to the side.
“What’re you, nuts?” Jerry shouted.
“Pretty close,” Mitch said with a tight grin. He packed another snowball.
Confusion gobbled Jerry’s face. His eyes turned toward his car.
The radio. The Glock wavered uncertainly away from Harry, toward Mitch, who was now only an arm’s length away.
“What’re you gonna do, Jer? Shoot me for throwing a snowball?
Shit, man. I’m your cousin.”
“You’re interfering in an arrest. Now get back!”
Becky’s voice. “Whatever you guys are gonna do, you better make it quick!” she yelled.
Then the radio in the Blazer squawked: “Jerry, this is Billy. Where the hell are you, over.”
“He hasn’t called it in,” said Harry.
“Yeah,” said Mitch.
“Nobody fuckin’ move,” shouted Jerry. He was losing control of the situation. Mitch tossed the snowball up in front of Jerry’s face.
The instant Jerry’s eyes flinched, Mitch struck the gun out of line and swept Jerry’s legs from under him. Swift martial arts choreo-graphy locked the gun hand. Jerry dropped the weapon. Harry watched, amazed.
“Goddamnit,” Jerry yelled, going facedown. “Don’t fuck around!
You can go to jail, you dumb…”
Mitch wheezed, tightening his grip. “’Member you laugh 356 / CHUCK LOGAN
ing at me about Mr. Talme’s judo class the last three years, cuz…”
Becky raced out of the darkness. She seized the Glock and held it to Jerry’s head just as he was lifting Mitch bodily off the ground.
She didn’t have her finger on the trigger, but Jerry didn’t know that.
“Get his handcuffs,” yelled Mitch. Jerry pounded at the ground with his left hand, trying to get leverage. Mitch and the pistol held him pinned. Harry lurched on his knees, grabbed the cuffs from Becky, and slapped one bracelet on Jerry’s left hand.
“You’ll be sorry,” shouted Jerry.
Harry put his knee in Jerry’s back and wrenched the cuffed hand over toward the hand Mitch had in a wrist lock. Jerry was cuffed.
Mitch let him go. The infuriated deputy rolled over and sat up.
“Fuckin’ felony you’re looking at, Mitch!” he roared.
“Way I see it, Jer, there’s the law, there’s family, and there’s Becky.
Becky comes first.”
Harry glanced at Mitch. “This is some deep shit you’re getting into,” he cautioned.
“You got no idea,” said Mitch. His stony eyes did not waver. “Now help me get him to his car.”
With Jerry’s keys, Mitch opened the hatchback, shoved Jerry inside, and bound his feet with a rubber bungee. “You’re all headed right down the tubes,” Jerry yelled. Mitch slammed the rear hatch. Becky and Mitch embraced.
“You sure you’re not mad at me?” she said.
“Shush. Call when it’s safe. You know where,” Mitch instructed.
She nodded. Mitch turned to Harry. “Me and Jerry’s gonna take a ride in the woods. Way back. I suspect we’ll get stuck for big ass.
Might not find our way out till tomorrow. You get her as far as you can and lay low. You have money?”
Harry felt the wad of hundreds in his pocket, the shape of his wallet. Visa card. He nodded. Looked toward the trailer. Dropped his eyes to Becky. “Bud is a fucker,” he said.
Becky bit her lip to stop the tears.
HUNTER’S MOON / 357
“Chris didn’t attack Bud,” said Harry. He swallowed. Couldn’t get the words out of his mouth.
Becky helped him. Bitterly. “You all had it backwards. He was defending himself when you…”
Hell wasn’t even other people. It fit neatly inside his own skin.
Harry took a deep breath of sulfur. He put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Did you see what happened here?”
Mitch shook his head. “We got here after. Then Jerry pulled in, I hid my truck behind the trailer…Look, there’s no time. If she don’t get far away, Maston will kill her. When Jer gets over being pissed, he’ll listen to me.” Mitch climbed into the Blazer, ripped the radio handset away from the dash, and tossed it out the window. “Run for it,” he said.
They watched Mitch drive away. Becky began to tremble. “He’s smarter than everybody.”
Harry put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Listen. We have to function, you understand?”
She shuddered against him, “He’s got everything figured out. He plans things years in advance.”
“Nobody has everything figured out.”
“Take me somewhere it’s safe. It’s gotta be real safe or I won’t say anything.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
“Find it,” said Becky. “Find it fast. It’s everything I can do to keep from screaming and if I start, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”
Randall.
They couldn’t travel the way they were. They had to clean up.
Harry had to physically carry her over the threshold into the bathroom and stand by the door until she took a shower. He handed her a wind suit and low soft leather boots Jesse had laid out for the trip. When she finished, he ducked under the water, soaped, sham-pooed.
Becky waited outside, insisting he keep the trailer door open so she could see him when he used the
phone. Jesse’s 358 / CHUCK LOGAN
purse lay on the counter leaking a maddeningly normal cosmetic blush that drifted sweet on the stink of death. Harry picked the Ray-Bans from the purse. Put them on. His fingers ruffled the airline tickets that slanted in the side pouch.
He made two calls. Wrote quickly on a notepad. Then he opened the hall closet, some drawers, until he found a pair of Cox’s jeans, jean jacket, and a shirt. A pair of cowboy boots. He rolled the pistol in his bloody clothes and stuck them, with Becky’s wind suit, long underwear, and shoes, into an AWOL bag he found in the closet.
He dressed in Cox’s clothing. Loose fit. Stylish these days. A leather travel bag lay on its side in the clutter. Harry snatched it up.
“We’ll freeze in this stuff,” Becky shivered.
“It’s warm where we’re going.”
The bloody palm print on the wall gave him a red push. “Let’s go.”
Becky pulled a knapsack from next to the trailer steps and grabbed Jesse’s travel bag, looked up, and nodded. He pulled Jay Cox’s black cap with the Snoopy emblem down over his eyes, pushed the Ray-Bans up on his swollen nose, squeezed Jesse’s car keys, and walked toward the blue Escort with the rusted-out rocker panels.
Pulling out onto the county road, Becky turned to him. “You could have got away. Thank you. That was…decent, what you did for Mom.”
Harry shook his head. “The way we are now, it was disturbing evidence.”
“No, it was decent.”
58
Going south down 61 an adrenaline backfire contained the chemical inferno in his blood until his last reserves snuffed out at Two Harbors and he forged a finely wrought hate and drove on that and the snow tapered to flurries and they spotted the high bridges of Duluth. Becky worried him; huddled, HUNTER’S MOON / 359
staring straight ahead, hugging herself in her mother’s jacket, she had not spoken one word since they left Stanley.
Harry pulled into a shopping mall. Hit the grocery and a Nutrition World. He bought a bottle of Tabasco sauce, Niacin 500 mm tablets, chewable Vitamin C, and spring water. Back in the car, he poured an ounce of Tabasco into a Styrofoam cup and knocked it back with six of the Niacin.
Becky watched curiously as he grimaced and tears came to his eyes and he muttered, “Detroit hangover cure.” He swigged from the half-gallon of water to hydrate himself.
