Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1)

by L. L. Enger

  Hedman looked at him quickly. “Depends on whose cat it is.” Behind the automatic smile, Lyle’s face glistened with an emotion that looked for all the world like fear.

  8

  “All I can say is this, Gun. I’ve known your girl for a long time and I think I can read her pretty good. No way was she giving the nod to Geoff the other night. I don’t care what the old man told you.”

  Gun nodded. After leaving Hedman’s he’d driven straight over to Jack’s and ordered lunch. It was eleven-fifteen.

  “Lyle’s full of shit, always has been,” said Jack.

  Gun finished his glass of buttermilk. Jack didn’t know of the land transfer, and Gun wasn’t about to say anything. Nothing he could say was going to make any difference now. If Mazy had married Geoff, then Lyle had the best land he could ever hope to ruin.

  “You better tell me all the scuttlebutt you know about this Loon Country deal, Jack. Doesn’t look like I can stay out of it any longer.” He swallowed a bite of his burger.

  Jack reached for the yellow carton sitting on the

  shelf behind him. “What’s Mazy told you? She’d know more than I would.”

  “Not much, as usual.”

  “Yeah.” Jack refilled Gun’s glass. “Well, it’s hard to say right now. The referendum could go either way, is my guess. A lot of people support Larson, he’s been a good commissioner for twenty years. On the other hand, you’ve got almost a majority of folks in this county getting their paychecks from Hedman, not to say they love the guy. His wife probably can’t even do that. No, if you’d asked me two weeks ago, I’d have said Lyle’s proposal wouldn’t go through.”

  “But...” said Gun.

  “But in the last dozen or so days Reverend Barr has really jumped on the bandwagon. He can make Hedman look like a prophet of God. And then there’s that mock-up of Loon Country Attractions Hedman set up in the bank. Seen it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s impressive. The sort of thing that puts a picture in somebody’s head. You don’t forget it like you do a pretty speech. I’ll tell you, though, looking at it, I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell you’re going to fit a condo, a world-class hotel, a shopping mall, a damn circus midway, and God knows what else—all of it on that scrap of swampland Hedman bought from Devitz. It doesn’t add up.”

  “That’s right, it doesn’t.”

  “And don’t forget the talking loon forty feet high. ‘Greetings, friend. Welcome to Stony Lake, your entrance to the great northern wilderness.’ Or some such shit. You feed it a quarter, it talks.”

  Gun stood up and reached for his wallet. Something was making his stomach uncomfortable, and it wasn’t Jack’s hamburger.

  “It’s on me,” said Jack.

  “Thanks.” Gun rapped a good-bye on the bar, but Jack wasn’t ready to let him go.

  “What would Lyle want with Mazy, anyway? Say she did come up with something embarrassing—”

  “Or illegal.”

  “Or illegal, right. Even if she did, Hedman isn’t dumb enough to do anything to her. Damnit, Gun, what’s going on?”

  “Hedman seems to think he knows.”

  “You don’t believe that rubbish any more than I do. None of this makes any sense.” Jack picked up Gun’s plate and glass and set them on the counter behind the bar.

  Gun rubbed his jaw. He hadn’t shaved yet today, and it was about time he did. Go home, shave, think, take a few swings.

  “Well, does it?” Jack said.

  Gun shook his head and took two steps toward the door. Then, on impulse, he turned. “You think maybe there’s somebody bigger than Lyle? Somebody putting pressure on him?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You remember what I told you about Tig’s cat.”

  “Sure.”

  “‘Course we don’t know Lyle was responsible, but say he was. Seems like a desperation move. There are better ways to go about persuading somebody.”

  “Filthy lucre,” said Jack.

  “And something else too. I think somebody knocked Lyle around a little bit, put the fear of God in him.” He told Jack about Hedman’s bruised face.

  “That puts a little twist on things. Any ideas?”

  “Not yet,” Gun said. He turned and headed for the door, stooping a little as he went. It opened as he reached for the knob, and Carol Long was there. She’d changed into khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt with a pink hibiscus pattern.

  “Carol,” Jack called from the bar. “You brought your legs. Good.”

  “Clever, Jack.” Carol smiled at Gun. “He isn’t well.”

  “Observant, though,” Gun said.

  “So am I.” She tilted a look at him and glided over to the bar with a grace not often seen in Stony. She said, “Sorry I sprang in on you that way this morning. But I didn’t understand things then, and I still don’t. What about you?”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Onerous process,” said Jack.

  “Well, I’m glad I found you. This morning I ran into Reverend Barr at Fisher’s Cafe. Talkative man. You might be interested.”

  “Might be.” Gun moved closer.

  Carol Long crossed one leg over the other with a movement that was frank, even modest, yet the effect was no different than if the lights in the room had been snapped off to reveal she had glow-in-the-dark panty hose. Gun had to take control of his eyes and tell himself to pay attention.

  “. . . and he was wearing his collar, dressed for preaching.”

  “It’s eleven-thirty,” Jack said. “He’s probably in the middle of his sermon right now.”

  Carol shook back her hair like a schoolgirl. It was straight and black except for those rare gray strands that twisted off course like erratic pencil lines of light. She continued. “I’m sure he wasn’t planning to come in—he’d already walked past the door. But when he saw me through the window, he turned around and came in, walked right up and asked if he could join me. I said fine.”

  She paused, looking first at Jack, then at Gun, before going on. “First off, he was acting smug, not unusual for him, I know. But he was the wrong kind of smug. Money smug. In the world and of it too. No platitudes or significant stares into infinity. Just plain physical arrogance.”

  “What did he say?” Gun asked.

  “He asked if I thought my editorials against Loon Country were doing any good. I told him yes, I thought so, and he gave me this huge foolish grin. He was feeling so good he stopped a waitress and ordered himself breakfast.” Carol lifted her chin and took a deep breath. Gun and Jack leaned in. “Then he looked around the cafe and whispered to me, ‘I suppose you’ve heard the rumor about Hedman’s new land deal.’ I said no. He said, ‘Well, it’s no rumor. Lyle’s got an iron-clad guarantee on the best property on Stony Lake.’ Then he grinned again, real wide, and said he’d always wanted to leak a story to the press. And he left.” Carol leaned back and was silent, bottom lip thrust out. She glanced from one man to the other.

  Jack’s face looked as solid as the mahogany bar that reflected its image. His dark eyes didn’t blink. His forearms twitched in a kind of rolling motion from wrist to elbow. He said, “Everyone knows you’ve got the choice spot on this lake, Gun. What the hell’s Barr talking about?”

  Carol watched Gun’s face.

  Gun didn’t answer, only sighed and withdrew behind a scowl that made his eyes disappear. From Jack’s kitchen came the lazy sound of a country-western tune crackling through poor reception. Either Mazy had said nothing to Carol about the land

  transfer or else Carol was playing dumb. But the lines in her forehead looked earnest, and Gun figured she didn’t know any more than what she was letting on. “I think you’ll be finding out soon enough,” he said finally. He tipped his head slightly toward Carol Long and walked out of Jack Be Nimble’s into aspen shade and brilliant splotches of noon sun.

  9

  The bells at Reverend Barr’s church were doing their post-service chiming as Gun
approached the edge of Stony. On impulse, he turned off Main Street and guided his truck along First Avenue toward the high-steepled edifice of red brick. He double-parked in front of it, sat with his elbow out the window, watching the parishioners file out the church doors and down the steps. Reverend Barr pumped hand after hand, often leaning close to offer words of either flattery or wit, judging from the response of his flock: nods or shakes of head, embarrassed shrugs, tossed hands—”Oh, you!” Gun wondered how Barr had managed to squeeze Loon Country into this week’s sermon. According to Jack, a sometime churchgoer, last week Barr had used the parable of the talents, that great New Testament defense of capitalism.

  Now Samuel Barr was shaking County Commissioner Tig Larson’s hand. Larson had a stiff smile on his face, an anxious set to his shoulders. He escaped quickly. As he turned onto the sidewalk, Gun eased the truck forward and pulled up alongside him.

  “Hey, Larson. Surprised to see you’re still attending.”

  Larson didn’t slow down.

  “Larson!”

  Larson turned, his face uncharacteristically wrinkled. He pointed at his watch. “Sorry, Gun, I’m kind of in a hurry. If you don’t mind . ..”

  “No problem.” Gun accelerated, watching Larson in his rearview mirror. There was no use talking to him, anyway.

  Turning back onto Main Street, Gun headed west. He had made a mistake signing his property over to Mazy. A bad mistake, no doubt about it. But it was done. The question now was how it happened. Had she transferred the land over to Hedman willingly or unwillingly? Had she been somehow forced into marrying Geoff—or was it her own free choice? Were they married at all?

  Gun swerved to miss a squirrel dodging across the road, then down-shifted and turned north on the lake road, gave the big eight-cylinder some gas and shifted back up into fourth.

  No, he simply couldn’t feature it, couldn’t even squeeze the two of them into his imagination at the same time. It was impossible. If his daughter was married to Lyle Hedman’s son, it wasn’t because she wanted to be. A chill shook Gun’s shoulders and tingled clear out to his fingertips. He spoke out loud, in order to convince himself. “She wouldn’t,” he said.

  The lake road was rough with potholes. The county men hadn’t been around yet to repair the damage done by the recent winter’s frost heaves. As Gun steered the Ford around Shipman’s Bay he caught sight of old Leo Hardy, alone the last quarter century, standing tall and mackinawed on his dock. Leo waved, and Gun tapped two hoots on the horn. It was a little like looking at himself.

  It hadn’t been easy, giving Mazy up after the accident. It hadn’t taken him long to see he’d done it all wrong, either. Her visits home were long and frequent, but her forgiveness was difficult to earn. They didn’t fight—mostly since she didn’t talk—but she went out of her way to show Gun he’d been wrong to let her go. Wrong to make her give him up when she needed a father most.

  If it weren’t for her dreams, Gun might have thought Mazy was just being stubborn, vindictive. But her dreams were real, and frequent. They arrived in the early hours of the morning, a week or so apart. She’d call out in a desperate voice, yanking him from sleep and setting him barefoot on the cold pine floor. He would walk into her room, turn on the light, and tell her everything was okay. She’d tell him what she’d just seen: the 737 tumbling out of control, its blinking red lights spiraling down through the night, the detonation of flame, the crack and whoosh of gas tanks bursting, the wavering pillars of orange terror shooting a hundred feet into the sky. And her father playing outfield under the bright lights at Bloomington.

  Now, bumping along the rutted driveway, surrounded by the smells of weeds and flowers and pines, Gun asked himself if maybe his daughter resented him more than he knew. He parked the truck next to the garage. Stepping out onto the uncut grass, he heard the faint jingle of the phone ringing in his kitchen. He hurried only slightly, and picked it up in time to hear a click. He rolled a cigarette and sat at the table to smoke it. It would ring again.

  It rang on his third cigarette. He picked it up.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Dad?”

  “Mazy.” Gun sat down on the tabletop. “Mazy, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, great, just. . . really fine.”

  “Where are you? It’s Sunday ... I mean, we’ve been wondering where you are.”

  “With Geoff. Out at Hedman’s. Got here this morning. In fact I just missed you, according to Lyle.”

  “What are you doing out there?” He had to ask, had to hear her say it.

  “Dad?” The pitch of her voice was higher than usual. The tone harder. Her sentences shorter. “Dad, Geoff and I... we’re married. We eloped, last night.”

  There it was. “You’re in trouble, Mazy.”

  “No, really, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry. I’ll come and visit. Or no, why don’t you come out here? Lyle says to tell you that you’re always welcome. In fact, why don’t you—”

  “Tell me who it was that married you. Where’d you go?”

  She said nothing.

  “Tell me who married you and Geoff. I have to know.”

  “I don’t know his name. A civil wedding, Ojibway County. The old guy that runs the hardware store in Blackstone. Something Gordon, I think.”

  “Sweetie, I’ll do what I can. You know that. I’ll do whatever I have to do.” Gun was fingering the tobacco papers, but he didn’t roll another cigarette.

  “Come out, all right?” Mazy said. “Do that, okay? And about the land—”

  “Forget the land, Mazy. Forget it.”

  “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later. We’re about to have

  dinner. Fresh walleye.” She gave a little laugh that sounded almost cynical.

  Gun was silent.

  “Dad, I love you.”

  “You too,” said Gun. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, I do. I’ve got to go now, okay?”

  “Good-bye, Mazy. Don’t worry now, all right?”

  “‘Bye now.”

  “I said all right?”

  She hung up.

  He knew it wasn’t any use but he made the call anyway. Zeke Gordon was pushing ninety, white cataracts on both eyes, the sort of man whose proximity to the next world puts soft colors on the present one. Every time Gun had seen him, the man was shedding happy tears about something. New kittens in the alley, bratty children playing in the street, the most recent couple he had joined together in holy matrimony back in the nail section of his hardware store on Saturday night.

  Gordon sputtered through his gums, snapped his teeth into his mouth, and proceeded to carry on, congratulatory, weepy. Gun’s pretty daughter had gotten married. Gun hung up on him.

  A fresh box of baseballs had arrived yesterday from the store in Minneapolis, the first of a dozen sporting goods stores Gun had purchased after retiring. Gun went into his bedroom, fished out the box from under the bed, grabbed his bat from behind the bedroom door and went outside to load the pitching machine.

  He couldn’t remember being any better. His eyes were working so well he was able through concentration to make each pitch appear to slow down. He could see the red seams revolving, and merely had to put the meaty part of the bat on the ball. He took twenty swings and hit twelve baseballs out into the

  water, home runs. He lined seven into trees, and fouled off just one. The last pitch he sent deep to center field, and the ball hit a dead limb thick as a man’s arm near the top of an old pine. The limb broke free at the trunk, toppled down and landed at the water’s edge. The ball continued on.

  10

  The hearing next day was held in the upper-level dining hall of the Muskie Lounge, a plush green room used on occasions when the persuasion of comfort was needed. It held about 150 with all the folding chairs in use, and at a quarter to twelve the room was getting noisy with people talking at each other over complimentary drinks. A hush fell briefly as Gun walked in. Some turned and looked at him, but it wasn’t
long before the pitch of the room was back to normal.

  Hedman was leaning against the wall at the front of the room, a prespeech drink in hand. Three smiling men in pastel suits stood around him talking. Above their heads was a mammoth wall-mounted muskellunge, a treble-hooked Rapala in its angry mouth.

  “I bet he got that other land,” said a woman’s voice behind Gun. The voice was middle-aged with a cigarette scrape. Gun didn’t turn around. “I bet he got it, and has this whole damn thing in his pocket.”

  “Got what other land?” said a male voice. “Who’d sell out to him? Besides, long as Larson’s on the county board, this thing’s just a dream.” Gun smiled to himself. He hadn’t been the last to find out after all.

  “What do you think, that Larson’s pure? Because he’s a land and water freak?

  “What if he is on the county board? It’s going to a referendum. Popular vote, you know the concept.”

  “I’m serious,” said Melissa. “Old man Hedman bought Larson just like he bought these drinks.”

  Gun turned his head just enough to suggest annoyance with the conversation.

  “Shh,” the man said.

  Carol Long had arrived now and was moving gracefully among the county’s overweight stratum of importance. Gun watched as she talked with Harold Amudson, her slender figure holding up a silver recorder the size of a cigarette pack. Harold Amudson was a town gas merchant. Until falling into Hedman’s camp, Harold’s idea of economic development had been to add another line of Little Debbie bars to the snack rack in his Standard station. Now he sold deli sandwiches and had a bright plastic roof over his gas pumps. Now he wore thin knit ties and bored anyone near him with schemes for development projects. There was a county board slot coming open in a year. Eight months before anyone cared, Harold was running for it.

  “See you’re waiting for me!”

  Gun knew the voice. Geoff Hedman, tall and smiling, stood just within the wide double-entry. He wore a linen sport jacket, crisp Levi’s, and a Key West tan. To his right, three ladies in bowling jackets ducked and whispered. “Looking fine,” he told them. The women giggled.