by L. L. Enger
An arch framed with leather-laced tusks led Gun into a wide hall with doors to the right and left. The right door opened into a factory-sized kitchen large enough to feed a safari, and probably the elephant. The left door showed only a narrower, carpeted hall, with a sculpted walnut door at the end of it. The door was unlocked. Gun opened it and switched on a light.
The room was no more than a small private cube, covered on the walls with African spears and diamond-oblong masks. A round blue pool took up most of the floor, surrounded by fur-covered pillows of every shape and species. Gun snapped a switch on the wall and the pool roiled up into foam, fogging the air.
“Damn,” Gun said out loud. On the opposite wall a long peach nightgown hung from the point of a stone-tipped spear.
Upstairs he located Hedman’s monstrous master bedroom, an affair made comic by the presence of two separate single beds pushed against opposite walls. More interesting was Lyle’s study, which contained a fat oak desk piled with papers and a well-scribbled calendar. Gun studied the calendar by flashlight: no cities, no flight times, no plans. He tried the drawers. One was locked. It gave under an angled kick, and Gun dug down to the bottom through file folders, newspaper clippings, letters. As he closed it, something rattled. On second look he pulled up a plastic-cased videotape. The hand-printed label said, The Art of Persuasion. Gun pocketed the tape, shaded the light, and descended the stairs.
Reinforcements had arrived. In the gaslight a stooping cluster of khaki jumpsuits worried over Horseley and Bondy while several fanned out to points near the river. Evidently they reasoned that whoever jumped the guards took immediate leave, instead of staying around. Gun was glad he’d hidden the boat.
He left the lodge by a dark back door that serviced the kitchen. The sounds outdoors were panicked: pounding steps searching the bank, face-slapping and grumbling as the two guards came groggily around, quick shouts faintly distorted by breeze. The tiny pointed scent of gas whetted Gun’s sense of smell, and dimly across the meadowy slope he could see the shape of a squarish thatched building.
The guest house. If Hedman hadn’t held Mazy in the lodge, she might have been billeted there. It was going away from the river, but the gas lamps were fewer here, and so were the guards.
He crossed the meadow in a fast stomach crawl, avoiding the patches of weak light cast by the lamps. Behind him he could hear activity in the lodge, the swearing of sentries. He looked over his shoulder. Windows blinked on, burned in outrage for a few seconds, and were extinguished.
The guest house was locked, but Gun still gripped Horseley’s key ring, and he hit it right on the second try. If the guards were sacking the lodge now and came up empty on the riverbank, the guest house would be next. Gun didn’t bother to search the first floor. Weren’t bedrooms always on the second?
Mazy had been here. The upstairs suite connected two bedrooms with a bath and a kitchen that smelled of spilled champagne. In one of the rooms Gun’s flashlight exposed a closetful of clothes, Mazy’s size. The bedspread had been yanked in a hurry over humps of blankets. On the stand beside it lay the long red finger of a candle, tipped over in mid-flame, dots of red wax spattered over the wood. Gun searched the drawers of the ebony dresser. They were empty except for a wallet-sized photograph. Gun picked it up. It was a picture of himself.
The other bedroom held less of interest. At least at first glance. Geoff’s clothes were squeezed into the closet and dresser drawers, and a long robe hung from a quarter of the high four-poster bed. Gun noticed the
bedspread, an African print quilted Minnesota-heavy, made into hospital corners. It looked unslept-in. Then he saw what was lying on top of it.
A single sheet of paper, triple-creased, with letterhead and a few sparse lines of type. Against the dark bed the paper glowed in Gun’s beam. He seized it, blessing the conscientious travel agent who’d dutifully sent an itinerary to the travel-bound Hedmans.
They were in Canada. The agent specified that holders of six tickets were entitled to flights via Northwest to Calgary, Alberta. They’d gone yesterday morning, rising west out of Winnipeg, out of his reach. Gun scanned the paper for a return date and came across another piece of information. Only five of the tickets were of the round-trip variety. Someone was staying behind.
A scatter of approaching shouts muffled through the glass made Gun douse his light. He peered from the window but could see no one. Then the door downstairs slammed open and a stormtrooper rush of boots washed over the floor.
Gun tucked the itinerary into a canvas pocket, then unlocked Geoff’s bedroom window and slid it wide. The guest house was a high-ceilinged structure, true to the Hedman sense of the grandiose. Gun grasped a corner of the bed, dragged it six feet to the window’s edge, and tied the arms of Geoff’s robe around a post. Draped from the window it cut six feet from the fall. Gun lowered himself to robe’s length, pushed off the outside wall with his toes like a rappeler, and let go. He rolled ball-to-heel-to-butt on impact, and by the time he reached the river and reeled in his boat, the needles of feeling were beginning to shiver his feet.
30
Home. One-thirty a.m. He turned on the power on his thirteen-inch color television, jammed the cassette he had found into the VCR, and stood flat-footed in the middle of the living room floor.
The picture clarified.
Mazy was sitting at a table in a dimly-lighted room, her back straight, arms resting confidently on the carved wooden arms of the chair. On her face Gun recognized the defiance he had struggled against for years. Now she was using it on Lyle Hedman, who sat across the table from her, tapping his long fingers on the tabletop. His lips were moving but there was no sound. Gun quickly stepped forward and turned up the volume, but all he got was a noisy fuzz that masked a low mumble. Mazy shook her head, half smiled, and crossed her arms in front of her. Hedman lifted both his hands in a kind of plea. He leaned forward. He seemed to raise his voice, his face jerking with the movement of his lips, and Mazy turned away from him. As Lyle continued to speak, he aimed both his index fingers at her and the arteries stood out on his neck. Mazy rose from her chair.
Out of the shadows at the back of the room a figure appeared, stepped forward. It was Geoff. Lyle spoke again, and Geoff nodded for Mazy to sit down, which she did. Lyle leaned back in his chair and with his joined fingers made a hammock for his chin. Geoff sat down on his father’s side of the table. For several more minutes Lyle continued to speak, his eyes on Mazy, his manner easy and confident. Then he stopped and Mazy gave him a decisive shake of the head.
Now Lyle lifted a single finger and his lips formed the word Watch. He raised his chin and adjusted his gaze to the rear of the room. Mazy turned to see what he was looking at. Two men entered the room. One was handcuffed and blindfolded and being led by the other, who wore the same style of green jumpsuit as the guard Gun had taken the .38 away from.
Hedman said something to the man in green, who nodded and backed his prisoner up against the light blue wall. Mazy turned and shook her head at Lyle. Her lips said no. Her face had gone slack and her eyes were wide, bright with unfocused confusion. Gun dropped into a crouch and pressed the palms of his hands against the floor for balance. He watched the screen and saw Lyle nod his head once and Mazy swing around. The man in green raised his pistol and aimed it at the blindfolded prisoner. From what Gun could tell, the weapon was a .45-caliber revolver. It jumped and jumped again. The man in the blindfold stiffened out against the light blue wall, two roses opening on his chest. His head rolled off his neck onto his right shoulder, and the weight of it seemed to settle the matter of which way to fall. He crumpled to the floor. Mazy looked around at Lyle, who shrugged once and licked his lips, then at Geoff, who was hiding behind his own hands. She looked back at the man who had fallen, then up at the light fixture above her head, and finally straight into the camera. Intelligence had fled from her face and left nothing to replace it. No fear, no terror, nothing at all. Gun reached out and touched her, received a small ele
ctrical shock from the screen. Lyle stood up. His jaunty posture was not congruent with the scene he had witnessed. He and Geoff ushered Mazy from the room.
As soon as they had gone out, the man in the green jumpsuit looked into the camera and stuck out his tongue. He clapped, then reached down and offered a hand to the dead man on the floor, who accepted it and was pulled to his feet, then freed from his cuffs. The two of them commenced a celebration of their performance, mugging for the camera, laughing, and smearing blood on their faces. Gun remembered Freddy Cheeseman’s words: Now he’s got to go all the way.
Five minutes later, in bed, not feeling tired but aware that he needed sleep, Gun prayed for the courage to make proper use of the destruction rising in his soul.
31
The telephone rang early, blistering Gun’s sleep. He rolled from bed and answered the phone in his shorts.
“Gun, it’s Carol. Where in God’s name have you been?” Carol’s voice sounded stretched and wired.
“Carol. I’m glad to hear you.” Gun reached for a kitchen chair and sat. “Kind of early, though.”
“I’ve been trying to get you all week. Damn it, Gun, you worry me.”
“I’m fine.”
“And lucky. You didn’t happen to be playing around Lyle Hedman’s place last night, did you?”
“Me?”
“God, I knew it. I knew it was you. The two guards you took out said they got jumped by a gang. Sheriff Bakke believed them, I think.”
“How do you know about this?” Gun checked the kitchen clock. “It was only about six hours ago.”
“I was up early,” Carol said. “I’m a journalist.”
“Off the record, then, I’d appreciate your silence on this. Did Bakke tell you anything?”
“Yes. He said apparently there were three or four of you, that you hunted through Hedman’s lodge and guest house, that you didn’t steal a blessed thing, and that all of you escaped into the rushes.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. One thing you aren’t, Gun, is clutzy. You didn’t drop any clues.”
“But Bakke has sworn to ‘make the pinch,’ right?”
“His words exactly. How did you know?”
“Couple of times a year folks around here get broken into. He always says that.”
There was a breath of silence on the line before Gun said, “Carol, I might be needing some help with this whole mess before too long. I don’t know that for sure, can’t even say what kind of help it might be. Can I call you?”
“You know that, Gun.”
“I’d like to think you’re in this for more than your dislike of Hedman.”
“You know that too, Gun,” Carol said.
“I’ll call you soon,” said Gun. “Hedman’s taken Mazy out west. Western Canada. And I don’t think he plans to bring her back.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. The whole Hedman clan is gone, and I think they intend to get rid of Mazy on the trip.”
Carol took a sharp breath. “Gun, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s time to get the cops into the picture. If they’ve taken her out of state, maybe we can get some agency help.”
A window patch of reflected sunlight moved across Gun’s wall, and his ears picked up the crunch of tires on gravel.
“Where did they take her?” Carol said. ‘“Western Canada’ is a little vague.”
“Someone just drove in,” said Gun. “I’ll call you later.”
“Please, Gun. We might not be able to do all this ourselves.”
“I’ll call you. I promise,” said Gun. He tried to hang up tenderly.
An angular blue sedan was sitting in the yard. Gun was startled when the driver slid out and stood, looking uncomfortably around. It was Reverend Barr. He was evidently in no hurry to get to the front door. Gun had time to find his pants.
“Good morning, Gun. I, ah, see you’re up.” Gun had opened the door just as Barr raised his knuckles to knock.
Barr was clerically dressed in humble brown tweed and a cardboard collar. His shoes were scuffed and apologetic, matching his manner. “Early church starts in another hour or so,” he said, his eyes sliding down to his wristwatch. “I thought maybe we could talk.”
“Go ahead,” said Gun.
Barr’s eyes met Gun’s for an instant and from there bounced to his chest, forehead, the doorframe, and background behind. They settled at last on a small mole on Gun’s cheek, below his right eye. He looked earnestly at the mole. He said, “This doesn’t come easily for me. I’ve a confession to make.”
Gun crossed his arms.
“You know what my stand has been on Loon Country,” Barr said. “No secret, I’ve been pushing for it. But things have gotten beyond my control. Beyond anyone’s. And I think your daughter’s in deep trouble.”
Gun felt a willful violence rising up inside, a frosty
wish to reach forth and close Barr’s windpipe. He said, “Talk fast.”
Barr’s gaze dropped from the mole to Gun’s chest, which was nearer his eye level. His voice withered. “It was Lyle Hedman’s idea,” he said. “Lyle came to me months ago. Flattered me. He said I had the biggest parish in Stony—that’s true—and told me I needed a new church. A big one.”
“So?”
Barr reddened over the white collar. “Maybe you don’t understand. There are better ways of making money than ministering, especially out here in the sticks. But there aren’t many better ways of gaining influence. A big church can mean big power, if you work things right.”
“So you sold out to Hedman. Should that surprise me?”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re surprised,” Barr said, forgetting his humility.
“Get to the point. Where’s Mazy?” He thought, Say Calgary, Reverend, and we’ve got a match.
“Everything started turning bad when Rutherford got killed,” Barr said. “He was our ace. Old friend of mine from the Cities. Used to come to my church down there.”
“Mazy,” Gun said.
“Please, let me finish. I need to do this.”
“Be quick, Reverend.”
Barr lowered his eyes to Gun’s knees in theatrical penitence. “Rutherford accomplished his purpose. He helped us bring Tig Larson over to our point of view.”
Gun nodded.
“Then Lyle got worried. Said we were in trouble if Rutherford ever talked. Said we had to be sure that wouldn’t happen. He had it done.”
“Why are you talking to me? Why aren’t you talking to the cops, if you’re so damned sorry?”
Again Barr’s weak composure split. “Goddamn you, Pedersen, I’m telling you because it’s your own kid that’s going down next.”
Gun’s arm snapped out in a backhand rope that knuckled Barr across the temple. The minister reeled on his feet while Gun gripped his stiff collar and pulled him up on his toes. “Confession’s over,” he said. “Now you tell me where Hedman took her, and tell me right, and tell me fast. Or I’ll put you on the other side before you’ve been forgiven.”
“Calgary,” Barr slurred. “West of there. Then to British Columbia. Hedman told me the whole family was going, sort of a honeymoon trip in honor of Geoff and Mazy. Only Mazy’s not coming back.”
Gun lifted Barr two inches off the ground. “She’s coming back,” he said. “Alive. And healthy.” Still holding him by the collar, Gun dragged the minister into the house. Barr sat at the kitchen table with his face in his fingers while Gun fished for an atlas. When he returned and laid it open on the table, a pink, porous knoll had raised on Barr’s temple.
It was fairly simple on the map. From Calgary Barr traced a highway across the border into British Columbia, and a winding provincial road into the higher territory of the Canadian Rockies.
“It’s the only cabin for a hundred square miles,” said Barr. “I pray to God you can find it in time. I wish I had a daughter, Pedersen.”
“Lucky for
her you don’t.” Gun picked Barr out of the chair by his collar and skidded him to the door. “Enjoy your last sermon, Reverend. And stay around. I don’t want to have to come looking.”
“I’ll face whatever I have to,” Barr said. He managed a sore smile that looked right under his lump. “I’m ready to make amends. As soon as you get back.”
32
“He’s a shyster in a pulpit, Gun. How much can you afford to believe him?” Jack was speaking forcefully to break through the noise of the truck, which was barreling northward. When they’d departed Sunday evening, it had been a cool day in June, but the nearer they came to the Canadian border, the more May seemed to step back in. Gun rolled up his window, quieting the cab a little.
“Enough to get me to British Columbia,” he said. He looked at Jack, who was sitting straight-backed in the Ford for a better view over the high dash. Jack’s chin was tough rock, unconvinced. “I keep seeing that look in Mazy’s eyes,” Gun added. He had shown the tape to Jack before they left.
“Can’t blame you for that.”
“Don’t worry,” Gun said. “I know old Barr could’ve been making it up, trying to get me out of Stony until after the referendum. But I think he was telling the truth. Look at this.” Gun pulled the flight
itinerary from the pocket of his flannel shirt and shook it open.
It took Jack a moment to decipher the note’s significance. He handed it back to Gun, wiped a palm over his black-bristled scalp, and stared forward at the highway. “Five round trips and a one-way,” he said. “How’d you get hold of that?”
Gun rolled his shoulders and said nothing, looking straight out over the wheel. He reopened his window an inch and let the wind whistle in. He knew Jack was watching him.
“I heard about half a story on the radio this morning,” Jack said. “Early news report. Some gang of vandals on the Hedman place. Didn’t steal anything, though.”
