Helen Burke’s hand came up from her side so fast it was as if she was about to pull a gun on Hud. She pointed her index finger straight at his face, a few inches from his nose. “You listen to me and you listen good. Nobody around here had anything to do with your mother disappearing. Did you ever consider that she just up and left? Abandoned you and Gee for a better life? Did you ever consider that? You didn’t know your mother like I did. She always wanted something more, something better. But you don’t know that. All you know is what Gee filled your head with and the fantasies that you made up yourself. Face it, Hud, she’s gone. It’s the past. You’re right. Just leave it alone. For your sake, and everybody else’s.”
“I was just a boy,” Hud said, the whisper softer, farther away.
Helen dropped her finger and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re right, you were. But you’re not anymore. You’re a grown man.” And then she spun and stormed off back toward her house, leaving Hud standing alone with the warm sun trying to soothe his face as the sadness grew deep in his gut.
“You were aware of the IA investigation into you before the shooting?”
“I suspected.”
“But you weren’t sure?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“You weren’t afraid that your snitch was going to turn on you?”
“I’ve answered that question before. The only way I had motive to kill him was if I had something to hide. I had nothing. Nothing. I shot him in self-defense. I didn’t plan on going there to kill Leroy. End of story.”
“You’re consistent.”
“I have no reason to lie about Detroit. I took my shots. I’ve healed.”
“Physically.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“There were lingering concerns. Anything could send you over the edge. Like losing a loved one. That’s all. But you know that, too.”
Hud couldn’t help but wonder what circles Harriet Danvers did travel in. The last thing he wanted to do after being scolded by Helen Burke was go back to the shop and revisit the emptiness that he couldn’t escape, so he figured the best thing he could do was go find out for himself.
He drove toward the first crime scene, hesitant only because of being shot there, and not because he was disobeying orders from Burke by working the case when he was supposed to be taking some time off. Harriet Danvers lived close by.
It was ridiculous to expect that he was just going to lie around. That wasn’t his style, and Paul Burke knew that as well as anyone else.
Hud eyed the landscape with interest as he drove away from the shop, trying to reconcile it with his memories of the past. The style of the cottages looked the same, all boxy bungalows. Very few of them had garages but instead had boathouses on the lake and fish-cleaning shacks not far beyond that. A lot of them had names on them like the Hideaway or Tiny’s Retreat, painted on plaques that hung by the front door. None of them looked familiar, though they should’ve. He’d driven the lakeshore road a thousand times, if not more. Everything looked smaller, distant, rundown in a fading, crumbling kind of way that Hud didn’t remember. It was like the lake and the earth were trying to reclaim the land from the humans, wearing down the structures with rain, wind, and vining ivy that threatened to take over the world. Left to the elements, some of the cottages didn’t look like they would last out the year.
The police radio was on, quiet mostly, until he heard the dispatcher call for a deputy. Moran answered. Hud was relieved to hear her voice, that she had come back to work as quickly as he had, though her capacity was obviously official and his wasn’t. Someone had reported a boat stolen from the Demmie Lake Boat Company, and Moran was closest. Hud looked around, figured out where he was in comparison to the marina, and brought the car to a stop. He was heading the wrong way.
If his thinking was right, he could get there at about the same time as Moran. He didn’t call in, didn’t let anyone know he was on the way, just put the car into reverse, spun it around, and headed to the marina as quickly as he could.
Chapter Eighteen
The county cruiser was empty, sitting by the front door of the boat company with its strobes on when Hud arrived. There was no one milling about. He parked on the side of the lane, just at the edge of a row of tall pine trees. He could see the building clearly, along with anyone who came and went from it, but it would be hard for anyone to see him unless they were looking. He rolled down the window so he could smoke and listen. He wasn’t about to horn in on Moran. Not yet.
The Demmie Lake Boat Company was a small marina set back from the lake in a cove that was only accessible by a narrow manmade channel. A dense wood surrounded the cove, and a series of well-worn foot trails cut through it. A few bare fishing spots dotted the shoreline in between bunches of cattails, protected from the hot sun in the summer by the canopy of tall walnut and oak trees. Thickets and a host of itch-inducing plants made everything else difficult to get to for humans, but plenty of wildlife—deer, raccoons, possums, and a huge variety of songbirds—had no trouble at all navigating the woods.
Hud had fished a lot of those spots as a boy, hit them all when the bluegill were spawning next to the shore in the spring, then later, in the more difficult parts of summer, he had retreated into the woods to smoke cigarettes he had stolen from Gee. He had fond memories of watching people come and go from the boat company, while he was hidden from their view. It had been good practice for enduring stake-outs, though he hadn’t known it at the time.
Six docks jutted out into the water, with twelve bays for boats, most of which were empty because of the time of the season. A few pontoons sat tied to posts, along with a few fishing boats that most likely belonged to diehard full-timers who took every chance they could get to be out on the lake. In the summer, there were more boats than there were spaces, and boats were parked and secured along the treeless sections of the shore. A smaller dock poked out just in front of the building with a gas pump on the end of the dock. It sat under an old rusty Sunoco sign, and there was a bell to ring if an attendant of some kind wasn’t about. On a windy day you could hear the bell ring a mile away, especially when an impatient customer wasn’t getting the kind of service he expected.
The Demmie Lake Boat Company’s building itself was like most everything else in the area, old, rundown, but still standing. It was nothing more than a two-story barn that had been extended to triple its size over the years. The exterior bore horizontal slats, grayed by the weather and time, rotting away a little more every day. Inside was a wide open space filled with boats and motors for repair. Boats were also stored up on the second floor. A collection of lifts and pulleys were visible from just about everywhere in the building and always seemed to be in operation. The office and parts counter were no bigger than a tool shed, and the walls were lined with pictures of boats, barely clad big-busted women, and smiling middle-aged men holding trophy fish. The place always smelled of thick grease and dead worms.
Hud assumed Moran was inside interviewing the owner since that had been her last call over the radio. He didn’t know who the owner was these days.
The place had been owned by a man named George Curlew when Hud was a boy. Curlew had been an old man back then, so he was probably dead by now. It was hard to tell whether Curlew’s family had taken over the business; Hud couldn’t remember if he’d had any sons or daughters. Not that any of that mattered. Curlew wasn’t memorable other than for the fact that he’d had no use for trespassers who fished the bare spots in the cove. The short, squat, little man had run Hud off more than once, mostly when business was slow and he had nothing else to do. The boat company had been a little sanctuary for Hud, a place to get away, be by himself. He knew the place well and was glad that it hadn’t changed much. He flashed on a sudden memory. He must have been thirteen or fourteen, had snuck away from the shop and was smoking a cigarette behind a glade of cattails. A big pontoon pushed up the channel, coming in for gas. There were three girls sunbathing on the open d
eck in the front, but Hud only had eyes for one. Goldie Flowers was stretched out in a yellow bikini, her skin tanned and supple, her curves highlighted by the overhead sun. She glowed like a teenage goddess. Just the thought of her back then aroused him all over again. He was going to have to find Goldie and finish what they had started.
Thankfully, Moran pushed out of the door, taking his mind away from the uncomfortable urge growing in his lap. She was followed by a tall, thin balding man who couldn’t have been any relation to Paul Curlew. Moran stopped and waited for the man to put his Chicago Cubs baseball cap on, then followed him toward the farthest dock. Even from Hud’s vantage point he could see two white Band-Aids on the deputy’s face. Mementos of the glass from the shooting. The plastic strips stood out, and he couldn’t help but wonder if her face would be permanently scarred. He hoped not.
The tall man pointed at an empty dock, and Moran nodded, took notes, probably writing down the slip number and location. She looked around and the man continued talking, but something suddenly drew their attention away from the dock. Hud followed their gaze to the back of the cove, where a smaller body of water lay behind it. In the summer it was covered with a blanket of thick green algae and choked with an abundance of lily pads. It was a great place to catch frogs and turtles but was mostly avoided because of the swarms of mosquitoes that chose the spot as their breeding grounds. With the leaves off the trees, though, the sun would have had the opportunity to beat down on the algae, and the cooler temperatures would have thinned the muck. It was entirely possible that the water was navigable—with the right boat.
The whir of a boat motor coming to life echoed across the still water and reached Hud’s ears at about the same time that he saw movement beyond the trees. In another blink, just as his fingers grazed the door handle, he saw a johnboat speed out from the frog swamp and into the cove.
Moran’s hand jumped to her gun, but the holster was snapped. She fumbled with it, trying not to take her eyes off the boat.
A man was piloting the flat-bottom fishing boat as fast as he could toward the channel that led out into the lake.
Hud pushed out of the car and hit the ground running. He focused on the driver of the boat as he drew his weapon, the .45. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the man’s identity. It was Leo Sherman, hands down, no question.
“You waited almost ten minutes before calling for an ambulance.”
“I was trying to save him.”
“But you shot him.”
“In self-defense. Why wouldn’t I try and save him?”
“You weren’t protecting yourself by letting him die?”
“I’ve already answered that.”
“Okay, I suppose we can move on.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think it might.”
“Then no, I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a word you’ve said.”
Moran drew Leo Sherman in her sights. She was screaming at him to stop, but the clatter of the outboard motor drowned out her commands. The sound of the furious escape echoed across the cove, piercing an otherwise quiet and serene autumn day. Three mallard drakes erupted into the air, unconcerned about any hunters in the area.
Hud joined Moran cautiously, calling out for Sherman to stop, all the while staying as close to the trees as he could. Being shot at again was not on the top of his list of things he wanted to experience again any time soon.
Moran saw Hud approaching and tried to wave him off, but he wasn’t going to be deterred. He fired off a shot as soon as he was within range. The bullet hit the water just behind the boat in the center of the wake. It had been a warning shot.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Moran demanded, as Hud came to a stop next to her. Every muscle in her body was tight, and she had that hard, battle-ready face any good kickboxer needed before entering the ring.
He was glad to see she hadn’t lost her edge, but he didn’t answer. Sherman’s boat was almost at the mouth of the channel, out of range. He fired off another shot. Somewhere close a covey of doves burst into the air, following the mallards. The shot missed, disappeared without leaving any evidence that it ever existed.
“Call for back-up,” Hud ordered Moran, then turned to the tall man, who looked stricken and afraid, and said, “Do you have a boat ready to go?”
The man nodded, then pointed to a new model inboard/outboard speedboat tied up next to a pontoon three docks over. “Just getting ready to bring that one in and put it up.”
“The keys in it?” Hud asked.
The look on Moran’s face suggested that she didn’t like taking orders very well. No surprise there. “Suspect sighted. Shots fired. 10-96.”
The tall man shook his head, dug in his front pants pocket, and pulled out a set of keys. “Got ’em right here.”
“Tell them I’m in pursuit,” Hud said as he reached for the keys.
“The hell you are,” Moran replied. “We are. I’m going with you.”
“Suit yourself,” Hud hollered over his shoulder. He was already halfway to the speedboat.
Chapter Nineteen
The water was as smooth as Gee’s glass-top coffee table, making Leo Sherman’s wake easy to follow. It was like a trail had been suddenly cut into the water, widening by the second. Hud sped out of the boat company channel onto the body of Demmie Lake as if he wasn’t worried about anything. And he wasn’t. Not as long as he had Leo Sherman in his sights. He stood up behind the steering wheel of the speedboat—a sixteen foot fiberglass tri-hull with a 327 small block engine in it—instead of sitting down. This was no joyride.
The boat skimmed across the lake at forty miles per hour and probably topped out at sixty or seventy, though there’d be no need to go that fast. Leo Sherman’s johnboat was no match for the speedboat, and he knew it.
“He’s heading for the backwaters,” Hud said, as he pressed the throttle, a T-shaped lever, forward. Wind from the speed whipped at his face, stinging his bruises and lacerations as he pursued his assumed suspect. The pain was negligible, but the air was cold, biting, almost bitter. It would have been better if the sun hadn’t been beating down on them. His heart was beating a mile a minute, and his body was producing adrenaline in record quantities, reacting to the primal fight to flight situation. No matter the outcome, the thrill of the chase still appealed to Hud. Sometimes, he longed for it.
“Will he make it?” Moran asked. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, holding onto the dash, her water legs not as stable as Hud’s. Even though the water was smooth, the front of the boat jutted up at a thirty degree angle from the water, and the ride was bumpy as Hud jumped in and out of Sherman’s wake, doing his best not to be an easy target. Even with that tactic, Hud was still gaining on the small fishing boat.
“We better hope not,” Hud answered. “My bet is that Leo Sherman knows the backwaters better than anybody around here. He’s lived on it and worked it most all of his professional life, from what I understand. He’s probably been hiding out there the whole time.”
“Burke had it searched. State police buzzed it with helicopters and heat-sensing radar. There was nothing human to be seen.” Moran focused on the johnboat. She had a worried look on her face.
Hud tried not to notice. The last thing he wanted was to be in an intense situation with a person experiencing doubt of any kind. “I’ve got this.”
“You’re not even supposed to be here.”
“I’ve always had a hard time sitting still.” He wished he’d remembered his sunglasses. His eyes stung from the sun overhead and its reflection off the lake.
The wind whistled around Hud and Moran, but they didn’t pay attention to it. Sherman curved the boat at a bend, twisted the throttle as far as it would go. Hud nodded, catching sight of the backwaters.
“Do you know it?” Moran asked.
Hud shook his head. “Not very well. This is the first time I’ve been out on the water since I’v
e been home. I spent more time as a kid at the boat company than I did in the backwaters. I could walk there from the shop, but I needed a boat to get into the backwaters. I had one, but I didn’t have a motor. Just oars. That was a long way to row just to be eaten by mosquitoes.”
Moran tilted her head to the right. “Makes sense.”
“How about you?” Hud said, never taking his eyes off the johnboat. They were still out of firing range. There was no stopping Sherman, at least at the moment.
“I can’t swim, so I try to stay away from the water as much as I can.”
That explained the discomfort Hud had sensed. He was relieved. “You should take lessons.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” She glared at Hud and gripped the dash a little harder at the same time.
Hud knew better than to pursue the idea. It didn’t matter anyway, other than for the fact that she had admitted a weakness to him. That was a surprise. Joanne Moran had been tough as nails and all business from the second they’d met. He was glad to see a human side to her. It had been starting to look as if she was nothing but cop from head to toe, and then she cracked a bit. He glanced over at her and saw the woman, the girl she had been, instead of the deputy she was trying to be. Everybody had their fears.
“He’s going to go in as far as he can, then beach the boat,” Hud said. “My guess is he’s done it before. He has an escape plan.” He pressed the accelerator lever forward a little more, and the 327 rumbled in agreement as the boat lurched forward a little faster. He liked the sound of the engine and the way the boat handled, but he resisted the urge to go full-out with Moran in the boat. He didn’t want to scare the shit out of her, but being on the water in a good boat was a pleasure he had never forgotten.
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