Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1)

by L. L. Enger

  “I didn’t know about it myself until the day before yesterday,” Gun said. “Or know for sure.”

  Carol’s green shorts had abstract white designs. On top she wore a loose white cotton pullover with wrinkles at the shoulders.

  “I’ve decided not to let them do it,” said Gun. It was a statement that he hadn’t known was true until he spoke.

  Carol’s face was direct and proportionate. No needless flesh on chin or cheek. The fall of her bangs across her forehead stirred in the breeze. Her perfume was something of island origin, and near enough to feel.

  “Would you like me to show you around?” said Gun. He made an exaggerated gesture with his hand.

  “Yes.”

  The four hundred acres made for a long morning’s walk. Gun showed Carol the coastal hollows that changed shape with each spring’s gouging ice-melt, a sudden twenty-acre clearing where the trees fell off to

  willowy shrubs and then to rushes, the clear-running stream that left Stony Lake and headed west. Finally they climbed a small rise at Gun’s northern boundary. Underfoot was a cushion of needles and above rose some of the last virgin pines in the logbelt.

  “They were here,” Gun said, staring up, “before anything.”

  “Like the redwoods in California.” Carol tilted her head back. “What kept the loggers from cutting them down?” she asked.

  Gun kept his eyes on the treetops. “I guess when the first loggers got here there were still some Indian legends around. One of them was about a young Chippewa chief named Mountain Face, who was a giant. Taller than four canoes are long.”

  “Large fellow,” said Carol.

  “Yup. And this Mountain Face died during a hard cold winter by going without food so the tribe could eat. They buried him up here.”

  “So the loggers stayed away? I’m surprised.”

  Gun winked. “The legend goes on to say that when Mountain Face’s burial ground is violated, he’ll come alive again, madder than hell. Maybe the loggers didn’t want to chance it.”

  Carol said, “I thought the loggers had Paul Bunyan on their side.”

  “It’s only a guess, but I think Paul Bunyan would have walked on tiptoe to keep from bothering Mountain Face.”

  “And Lyle Hedman?” said Carol.

  Gun turned to look at her. The sun was touching her black bangs, highlighting the few silver strands. A trace of perspiration sparkled on her cheekbones. “What do you think?” he said.

  Carol waited to answer until Gun shrugged and took the first step back toward home. Then she said, “I think Lyle Hedman should step carefully. Old legends have a way of coming back.”

  “All right, journalist, what have you got?” Gun said. They were sitting on Gun’s log porch holding stoneware mugs of ice tea.

  Carol frowned and leaned back in the rough-hewn chair. “I’m having a hard time finding the handle, if you want to know the truth, Gun,” she said. “I think it’s about time you leveled with me, told me what your gut says.” Carol took a sip of tea without removing her eyes from Gun’s face. “Did she want to marry the guy or not?”

  Gun laughed and looked away. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. Doesn’t do me a bit of good. The more I think, the more I don’t know, and the muddier everything gets.” He tapped a finger against his head. “I can tell you one thing, though. If I knew she was in some kind of trouble I wouldn’t be sitting here like this. But at this point what can I do? Roar in and sweep her away?” Gun stabbed a finger into the palm of his hand. “I’ve got to find a reason, one good reason. Something that’ll tell me she needs help. I don’t have that yet.”

  Carol nodded.

  Gun leaned toward her. “How about you? What do you think? You’re a friend of hers—she probably talks to you more than she does me.”

  “I don’t know. She mentioned Geoff a few times. Told me about that night in the woods, the prank he and his friends pulled. She said how much she hated him.”

  “Bastard.”

  “But she also said—about a week ago, after she’d started the story—how she was beginning to understand him. How the two of them had things in common. Powerful fathers, the fear of not living up to expectations, you know. She said she was almost getting fond of Geoff, much as she hated to admit it.”

  Gun snorted and waved off her words.

  “No, I’m not blowing it out of proportion. I’m just telling you what she said. Myself, if I had to guess, I’d say ... oh, I don’t know.” She threw up her arms and sighed.

  “You’d say what?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “So we have to wait and keep sniffing around,” Gun said, disgusted. “I wasn’t made for this.”

  “Say.” Carol brightened. “There was something Mazy mentioned, something I meant to tell you. She told me about it before I left for Minneapolis last week. She didn’t know if it was important, but it had her stumped.”

  Gun waited.

  “Loon Country’s a four-hundred-million-dollar project, right?” said Carol. “And supposedly all the money’s lined up: the local efforts are on track and coming together pretty good, considering the fact that nothing’s official yet. Bond sales, pull tabs, stuff like that. And the heavy hitters are committed. Tynex in Minneapolis for a hundred mil, Diamond Inns, all of those you’ve heard about. But here’s the thing. Mazy said she was looking through the portfolio at Hedman’s projections and it all added up to about three hundred million, a hundred short. She showed her figuring to Lyle and he just laughed and pointed to a name on the list of investors. The balance is right here,’ he told her.”

  “Who was it?” said Gun.

  “I don’t remember. I’d never heard it before.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “I don’t know, but I want to say it sounded African. It was a foreign word, I think. Yes, I’m sure it was.”

  Gun spent the next five minutes trying to jog Carol’s memory, but nothing clicked. Then she looked at her watch and said she needed to get going, there were interviews to do before press time. “Wait a minute, though,” she said, frowning suddenly. “Tig Larson.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t tell you. But apparently he never went home after the hearing yesterday.”

  “Probably headed for Minneapolis,” said Gun. “He has friends there.”

  “I don’t know. There was a county board meeting last night. Larson doesn’t usually miss those—and he wasn’t there. And Chief Bunn was looking for him this morning. Stopped by the paper to see if I’d seen him.”

  “Bunn? What did Larson do?”

  “Nothing. I guess Larson’s garage was empty and the door was open and the storm last night rolled the neighbor’s trash can in next to the Lawn Boy. It spilled all over. Bunn just thought it was strange that Larson wouldn’t be there, cleaning stuff up.”

  Gun frowned and rubbed his forehead with the sweating mug. It made a vertical pink mark on the skin.

  “I saw you talking to him after the meeting,” Carol said. “What did he seem like?”

  “He seemed tired, frustrated. He was depressed and a little drunk. And scared, maybe.”

  “He didn’t mention if he was leaving town?”

  “Nope. He said something about Holliman’s Bluff, like he might do some fishing.”

  “Fishing?” Carol looked off toward the water. “Maybe he thought he owed it to himself after that performance at the lodge.” She lifted the stoneware

  mug but stopped before touching it to her lips. Gun was on his feet and his face was gray.

  “We’ll take the truck,” said Gun.

  They were quiet on the ride, partly because the old half-ton Ford made a lot of noise at seventy-five miles an hour. Holliman’s Bluff was thirteen miles away, a dramatic chunk of upthrust rock that rose square-chested from the lake to a height of forty feet. There was a sign at the crest where the highway bent away from the lake: holliman’s bluff—scenic parking. There was room for half a d
ozen cars. On summer nights boys in family rods brought their girls to the bluff for especially scenic parking, while below them men in silver and red Lund boats fished for walleyes on the shelf. The sheer rock cliff went straight down about ten feet into the water, then stuck out its shelf like a knee for several yards and dove again to lake bottom and a final depth of a hundred feet in years with lots of rain.

  No one was parked at the bluff now, and no boats were working the shelf. Gun and Carol walked to the edge and looked over.

  “What exactly are we doing here?” said Carol.

  “I hope to God we’re wasting our time,” said Gun. He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hands, squinting down into the water.

  “What do you see?” said Carol.

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A county commissioner.”

  “Yes,” said Carol. “God.”

  Gun glared at the water for another two minutes. Then he walked back to the truck and stood eyeing the parking area in front of the bluff.

  “You’re looking for car tracks,” said Carol.

  “The rain wrecked any that might have been here. I think I can see where a set of tires bent down the grass right there, near the edge, but I can’t be sure. Maybe I’m inventing it.”

  Carol said she couldn’t see the tracks. Gun said, “I think we’d better check.” Kneeling, he untied and slipped off the Pony runners. He pulled off the loose T-shirt he was wearing, walked barefoot to the edge of the bluff, hiked his eyebrows twice at Carol, and dove.

  16

  Stony Lake in May was clear and arctic. The depth of the lake kept it colder than most, and the algae were not yet in bloom. Two months ago a car driven over Holliman’s Bluff would have crashed and burned on thirty inches of pack ice. Now Gun’s eyes stung with cold as he opened them underwater, searching.

  He found nothing on his first dive. The spring runoff had been high this year, and the pull down to the shelf felt farther than ten feet. He maintained a depth of about six, his head humming from the pressure, and kicked slowly, following the shelf off to the left. He surfaced, blowing, thirty yards farther along the bluff from where Carol stood.

  “Anything?” yelled Carol. She bent forward over the edge, the wind pushing her bangs aside and kiting the cotton shirt.

  Gun shook his head, panting to replace the air he’d spent underwater. He floated easily, waving his numb limbs while the oxygen penetrated. When he felt strong enough he went down again.

  He found Larson in his gray Buick Century another twenty yards along. The Buick was parked on the shelf with the right wheels hanging off the edge so it tilted like a car driven up on a curb. Larson was floating in the confines of a seat belt and shoulder strap, only lightly touching the seat. His heavy face was looking straight up through the custom-installed sunroof of the Buick, toward sunlight and air ten feet above. Gun pushed away from the car and let himself rise to the surface.

  “He’s here,” Gun called to Carol. She had followed his course along the top of the bluff, and because of the slope, was now above him just twenty or so feet away.

  “God, oh,” said Carol. Her hands were clamped into fists, thumbs enclosed. She jammed them in the pockets of her shorts.

  “I think I’d better bring him up.” Gun shook his head to throw the water from his eyes, pulled in a heavy lungful of air and bobbed under.

  He reached the Buick again and opened the door. It swung in slow motion, and he reached in and unclipped the seat belt. Larson was stiff in his sitting position, and his knees whacked against the steering wheel when Gun snagged his collar and tried pulling him out. The Buick rocked softly on the edge of the shelf, and he realized the need for care. If the car went over the side carrying Larson, it would take equipment and divers to bring Larson up. Not that it mattered too much. But Gun eased his approach a little. With the blood bumping in his arteries, already almost airless, he reached forward and straightened Larson’s legs at the knees.

  The commissioner’s hands floated an inch above his lap, and Gun saw and barely registered that several of his fingers were missing, cleanly nipped at the second joints, thin petals of skin swaying out from the stubs. Stony Lake had an eager population of turtles. Gun clenched the muscles in his jaw and closed his eyes. Air. He opened his eyes, put a hand out to take Larson by the waving hair, and leaned him out the door. He pulled hard. When the legs cleared the wheel he yanked Larson clear, gripped a solid thigh and shoved the body skyward. Larson drifted up through twilight, legs straight out in front, face turned up. He looked like a child sitting on the floor, staring at a spider on the ceiling. He spun slowly as he rose. Air. Gun pushed off from the shelf and broke the surface in seconds, beating Larson to the top.

  “Can’t you get him up?” Carol said, almost before Gun’s head pushed up into the waves. A ruffling breeze was coming from the northwest.

  Gun was too busy refilling to talk. He motioned with his head at a spot a few feet to his left. Larson was unhurriedly surfacing there.

  “Oh no,” said Carol.

  “I’m going to look through his car,” said Gun, breathing hard. “Then I’ll tow him in.”

  “I’ll take your truck,” Carol said, “get the police. God, does he have to look that way?”

  “Wait,” Gun said. He shook white slaps of hair off his forehead and blew hard through his nose. “Wait till I get ashore. For the cops.” Then he was down again.

  The glove box of the Buick held a Rand McNally map of Minnesota with a detail of Minneapolis and St. Paul on the reverse side. It held two empty bottles of Extra Strength Tylenol. A thin black jackknife with a fold-out fingernail file. Nothing else. Gun’s lungs were fatiguing more quickly after several dives. He sent a hand rifling under the front seat, found nothing, then took the keys from the ignition and worked his

  way back to the trunk. There was a rubber doughnut and a jack, neatly screwed into place in the floor of the trunk. An empty yellow Heet bottle floated up and out past Gun’s face. He felt heavy and sleepy in the brain. Not bothering to close the trunk, he dropped the keys over the edge of the shelf, bent over and grasped the rear wheelwell, and heaved the Buick into a slow fall. He didn’t stay to watch. There was no percussive thumm through the water when it hit bottom. Gun came up next to Larson.

  “What took you so long?” Carol sounded angry. Her clenched hands were paper-white. “You were down there forever.”

  Gun shook his head, swam a tired stroke to Larson and set off for a shallow slope of shore with the county commissioner riding behind.

  The Stony authorities had not been confronted with a body for over two years, not since the last time Funny Harbon Starling and his buddy Jerry had gone sprinting over thin ice in Harbon’s Power Wagon. It was something the two of them had done every November for fourteen years, proving their manhood. Finally the ice opened and swallowed them, burping up the bodies in the spring storm wash. Sheriff Bakke had turned white at the scene and threatened to turn in his badge.

  Bakke was at the bluff now along with two cops, and blinking rapidly at Larson. “When was the victim last seen alive?” he said. The blinks were magnified by massive lenses in brown plastic frames.

  Come on, thought Gun, find the right script. “I saw him yesterday. At the public meeting. Most of the town did.”

  “When did you locate the victim?” said Bakke, scribbling with the steno pad close to his face.

  “Thirty, forty minutes ago.”

  “Thirty or forty minutes? Lord, Pedersen, why didn’t you call right away?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be able to help him,” said Gun. Carol, at his side, was rubbing him down with his shirt.

  Bakke sighed. “The victim was in his car?” he said.

  “Tig was in his car,” said Gun.

  “In a seat belt, you said.”

  “One of those habits it’s hard to break.”

  “Car’s still down there?” said Bakke.

  “It wa
s too heavy for me,” said Gun. Carol smiled.

  “We’ll call you,” said Bakke. He turned and walked to the two policemen, who were gesturing over the body. “I don’t know,” he said to them. “I don’t know about this job sometimes. Law enforcement. Shit.”

  “I need to get dry,” Gun said to Carol. The northwest wind was steady and the waves were getting higher and farther apart.

  “Your keys,” said Carol, holding them out between thumb and pinky.

  “You drive.”

  At home Gun put on dry blue jeans, and sweat socks under the running shoes, and a long green chamois shirt to restore the body heat lost in the lake. Carol poked through a Baseball Abstract on the kitchen table.

  “Do you need to get back to the paper?” Gun asked her, returning to the kitchen.

  “Deadline’s eleven o’clock tonight,” Carol said. She smiled. “I’d better get back by ten.”

  “Let’s take a drive, then.”

  “Where to?” Carol leaned over the table at him, her hair falling ahead at the sides.

  Gun held up a small triangular wad of paper. It was wet and clumped together, but the words printed on it were legible. He tossed it on the table.

  “The Back Forty.” Carol looked up. “A bar napkin? I never heard of it.”

  “I found it on Larson when you drove up to Podolske’s to call the cops.”

  “God. You searched the body. Shouldn’t you have given them the napkin?”

  “Given it to Bakke?” Gun shrugged. “He wouldn’t have done anything with it.”

  “What’s there to do? It’s a bar napkin. What good does it do you?”

  Gun shrugged again. “Don’t know. Are we going for a drive?”

  “Will we talk on the way?”

  “If you like.”

  “Let’s take my car then,” said Carol.

  When they were in the car, both of Carol’s hands at the bottom of the plastic steering wheel, she said, “What’s with the Back Forty?” The front seat of the Horizon was pushed back to its outer limit. Gun’s knees were against the dash. The Back Forty was thirty miles to the south.

  “It has a reputation,” Gun said.

  “What sort?”