by L. L. Enger
“You got any ideas about a boat?”
“Yup.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Gun led the way. He continued half a mile on the county road, then took a right and went a quarter mile on township gravel. Just past an empty farmhouse he turned right again, then followed a curving, rutted drive that cut through heavy woods. The gravel pit was about a hundred yards in, an old dig no longer used and overgrown with weeds. It looked like a moon crater. At the far end was Landsom’s rusty combine, sitting there as it had for years, like a frozen dinosaur.
“We’ll walk in from here,” Gun said. He parked behind the combine. “It’s only a quarter mile to the lake. Straight that way.” He pointed into the woods, due south.
Jack pulled up alongside in the pickup. Gun walked back to the trunk of the Horizon, opened it, brought up artillery. The Savage over-and-under, a Remington 870 twelve-gauge he’d picked up in Winnipeg, boxes of shells.
“You said this was going to be easy,” Carol said, slamming the door of the Horizon and striding toward Gun. “Get a boat, pick up Barr, cruise into town. Nothing to it.”
“That’s right.”
“So what are those for?” She pointed at the shotguns.
Gun didn’t answer. Jack leaned into the bed of the pickup and held up a long fish-cleaning knife in a leather sheath. “For you, Carol. Just in case.” He reached over and slid the blond-handled knife into the front pocket of her jeans.
Carol stroked the knife’s handle and frowned. “What kind of trouble are you guys expecting?” she said, a ripple in her voice.
“Maybe none,” Gun said.
“Maybe more of what we had out west,” Jack added.
Carol’s eyes were on the shotguns and troubled. She said, “I’m afraid having weapons along will only make things worse. Gun”—she drew the fish-cleaning knife from the sheath in her pocket, its blade long and slightly curved—”I’m starting to think you really want this. A physical confrontation. You and Lyle... and the law of the jungle.” She shot Gun a sarcastic smile.
Gun handed the Savage across to Jack.
Carol said, “Mazy, can’t you see what’s going on here?”
Mazy shook her head. “I don’t think you know what kind of people we’re dealing with.”
“The kind of people we’re dealing with? We’re dealing with a bunch of hired deputies, and none of them are the least bit interested in doing us any harm.” Carol ignored a chuckle from Jack.
“That’s right,” said Geoff. Everyone looked at him. He kept his face on the level and his shoulders high, but took a step backward.
Jack said, “Geoff’s the only one agreeing with you, Carol.”
“You’ve all got an inflated idea of Lyle Hedman’s power,” Carol said. Her eyes were bright and her face shone with anger. No one answered.
Gun slid the pump action of his Remington back and forth twice to be sure it wasn’t jammed, then thumbed four shells into the magazine, pumped one into the chamber, filled out the magazine with number five, and checked the safe. He looked around the circle of faces. “Time to see about that boat,” he said.
Jack loaded his shotgun and they started off, Gun out front, Geoff sandwiched in mid-file, Jack in the rear. The forest was old and relatively free of undergrowth, and in ten minutes they could see Old Stony Road. The lake was twenty yards beyond it, hidden now by a fog rising off the water.
“You all know Lou Young’s place, right? It’s his boat I’m thinking of. Old Glastron, built like a tank, big Merc on the back. He keeps it on the lift. If I know Lou, it’ll be unlocked.” Gun glanced around at each face. Jack’s chin and cheekbones looked hard as cement. His eyes twinkled like spots of polished granite. Geoff seemed thoughtful, almost confident, gazing off in the direction of the lake. Carol’s eyes were dark slants. Half her mouth was turned up in a skeptic’s grin. Mazy’s face was placid and beautiful, but Gun knew if he touched her arm he’d be surprised at her hardness. As a small girl she’d smiled dreamily through all her shots, yet more than one doctor had broken off needles in her tough little muscles.
“Okay,” Gun said. “Let’s stay well back from the road until we’re opposite the grove of maples that borders east of Lou’s property. Then we cross over the road and walk the center of the grove to the lake. From there it’s only forty yards or so to the boat. The bank is pretty steep. We stay low and Lou needn’t see us.”
“I thought your charm was getting us the boat,” Carol said.
“Your point.” Gun smiled. He motioned with his head and started walking. Across the road from the maple grove they gathered in the darkness below the spreading limbs of an oak. Two sets of headlights passed by. One was a county sheriff’s car, headed toward Stony.
“He’s out of his jurisdiction,” Jack said.
“Should’ve flagged him down, told him so.”
Dark again, they crossed the road, stayed to the middle of the grove and made the lake. The water was sheltered from the wind here, and the surface shone with a dark luster, like well-used pewter. To the right, barely visible in the fog, was a small boathouse. Young’s heavy runabout hung in front of it, suspended just above the water in the square metal skeleton of the lift.
In a low crouch Gun started toward the boathouse, Carol and the others following. At the near corner of it Gun was stopped by a soft, low growl. He reached back and put a steadying hand on Carol’s arm, strained ahead to see some form or concentration of darkness. There was nothing. A dog? Lou had never owned one, Gun was sure of it. Scavenging coon, maybe. Or mink. He’d heard one growl like that once, a thirty-five-inch buck, its foot in a trap. Gun took a slow step forward and his boot snapped a twig. Then a throaty roar exploded in the air, and a shadow of liquid motion leapt from the opposite corner of the boathouse, eyes glowing yellow, body cutting the night like wind. Gun braced himself and brought up his shotgun like a staff. The yellow eyes flew at Gun’s neck. Something snapped. There was a hard thump, a choking sound. A floodlight kicked in, washing the lakefront white. A German shepherd lay at Gun’s feet, coughing, back legs splayed, front legs pawing at the chain around its neck.
“The hell’s going on here!”
Lou Young’s lanky figure stood on the sloping ground between his cabin and the boathouse. Gun started up the hill toward him, alone.
“That you, Gun?”
“Sure is, Lou.” Gun walked up to him. White curls stuck out from under Lou Young’s camouflage hunting cap. He was sucking on a short fat cigar. His old face was nothing but bone and shadow.
“Didn’t know you had a dog, Lou,” Gun said. He set the stock of his Remington on the grass.
“Don’t have a dog,” Lou said. “My sister’s. She’s off for Arizona these two weeks.” Lou tilted his head and shot a stream of smoke straight up. “Got a nasty voice, though, don’t he?”
Gun nodded. “You’re not in town for the doings, Lou.”
“Nope.” He squinted at Gun. “But I guess you’re on your way.”
“Yup.”
“And you want my boat.”
“That’s right.”
“Hedman’s got some money on your head, Gun. Not exactly official, but folks know about it. Five grand to whoever gets you on a leash.” Lou took the cigar from his lips, hawked, and spit.
“What do you think about that, Lou?”
“I think the man who’d take it is as shit-slimy as the one who’s offerin’.” Lou looked from Gun down to the lakeshore and nodded toward the boat. “There’s a fresh tank of gas. Choke her down halfway till she’s warm.”
“Appreciate it,” Gun said. He turned to leave.
“There’s lots of folk like me around,” Lou said. “Don’t say a whole hell of a lot. Tend to stay out of things, like you do most of the time. But they can’t jerk our heads around too easy, neither.”
Without turning, Gun lifted a hand in reply and walked on down to the lake. “Lou says we can have the boat,” he said.
“Charming,” s
aid Carol.
They boarded and motored off into the foggy darkness, the German shepherd setting up a high, mournful howling that pierced the heavy drone of the big outboard. It was a ten-mile trip by water to Gun’s place, half an hour. Jack drove. Gun sat close to the starboard gunwale and let his burned hands slice through the cool water. Off Crow Point half a dozen boats worked the walleye hole, but aside from that they were alone on the lake, or seemed to be. Visibility was poor. No moon, no stars. Just the ragged fog that hung in wispy shreds above the water and swept through their faces like clouds through an airplane. The wind had stalled out and the ride was smooth, the boat’s headlight beam steady.
They reached Gun’s dock at ten-thirty, according to Jack’s gold watch with green glow-in-the-dark hands. Mazy tied up the boat.
“Got the jail keys?” Gun said to Carol.
“Sure.” She held up a ring.
They walked to the boathouse and gathered in a semicircle at the door. Jack said, “You hungry in there, Reverend?” Carol put the key in the padlock. It didn’t snap open. She tried again, shook it. Nothing happened.
“You sure it’s the right key?” Gun asked.
“Positive.”
“Here. Let me try.” Gun leaned the Remington against the wall next to the door, inserted the key and yanked. The lock held. “You all right in there, Barr?” he yelled.
“Fine,” came the muffled response.
Jack produced a small flashlight from his pants and looked through Carol’s key ring. Gun walked to the woodpile next to his house and came back with a wedge-shaped splitting maul.
“This is ludicrous, it worked before,” Carol said.
“Give me a little room,” Gun said. He hefted the maul, swung it high, brought it down.
The lock broke under a single swing. Gun pulled the door open and stepped forward with Jack. It was black inside, and suddenly from the blackness sprang a heavy growl and the sharp snap of shell entering chamber. “Damn,” whispered Gun.
Another voice said, “Lay it down, LaSalle.”
38
Jack bent down slowly and laid the shotgun on the ground. Lyle Hedman stepped out from the shadows of the boathouse with a shotgun of his own, Reuben at his side. Three other men stepped forward and flanked Hedman, one on his right, two on his left. On the right was Horseley, one of the import guzzlers from two nights ago. Tonight he had a .45. Unholstered. The other two men were unfamiliar to Gun. One was close to seven feet tall. He carried a shotgun too, and set a Coleman lantern on the ground. The third man wore long oily black hair, dark glasses, and held a .30-30 at the waist. It was aimed at Gun’s midsection.
Hedman pointed at Gun’s Remington, which still leaned against the boathouse wall. “Berg, get rid of that,” he said. The big man, breathing heavily, took two slow steps backward, picked up the shotgun, and broke it in half against the corner of the stone building.
“The maul, Pedersen,” Lyle said.
Gun dropped the splitting maul on the ground. Reuben growled.
Hedman touched the dog’s head. “Sorry, boy, you can’t have him,” he said, then turned and peered into the darkness. “Reverend? It’s safe now.” Almost immediately, Barr’s lean face appeared over Hed-man’s shoulder.
“Old Samuel’s a little nervous,” said Lyle. He grinned broadly. “So. Surprised?”
“How did you know?” Carol said.
Geoff laughed and pushed his way between Jack and Mazy to stand at his father’s side.
“Good work, Geoff,” Lyle said. “It makes things a helluva lot neater.”
“Simple job,” Geoff said. He turned to Gun, winked. “I got a pen from that cashier, the one in Hope. Wrote a note in the John on toilet paper. I put it on the toilet seat, right there where the next guy would see it. And it worked, damnit! I got the pen pretending I wanted cigarettes—”
“Smart of you, Geoff,” Lyle cut in. “Now shut the hell up.” Lyle’s voice was trembling and the grin was gone from his face. “Gun, Jack, you guys made some hamburger out there in B.C. Congratulations. Hope the war games were fun.” He poked Gun in the chest with the barrel of the twelve-gauge. “You’re a brave man, aren’t you, Pedersen? You and your goddamn big reputation. Hero. Sportsman. Lone wolf. Bullshit. Let me tell you how the public’s gonna judge you from now on. They’ll hear the name Gun Pedersen and they won’t think Detroit Tigers. They’ll think killer. And they’ll be right. First degree, three counts. I guarantee it. I’ve got friends, and I’ve got witnesses. Jerry Drake, for one. He’s the guy out there you didn’t hit hard enough. Crawled off into the woods with just an egg on his head. Lucky guy. And there’s Geoff, he was there. Barr, too, if I wanted to use him to testify, which I don’t think will be necessary. Remember the little conversation you and the reverend had before you flew off to Canada? Sunday morning, wasn’t it, right out here at your place? You told Barr just what you were planning to do. Told him you were going to kill me and Geoff and anyone else who stood between you and your daughter. You were in a frenzy, remember? Foaming at the mouth. Screaming for revenge. You were going goddamn nuts.” Hedman looked over his shoulder at Barr. “Isn’t that right, Reverend?”
Barr nodded, sober.
Gun said, “I guess we’ll wait. See who the people believe.”
Hedman shook his head and gripped one hand around the back of his neck, as if trying to work out a kink. “Shit,” he said, “the people are only going to hear one story. That’ll make it an easy choice for ‘em.”
It was silent for a few seconds, then Hedman laughed quietly. “If you think I’m gonna let even one of you say one word to anyone about anything, you must think I’m some kind of idiot.” He leaned down and patted Reuben on the head. “Gun, all I can say is it’s too bad you had to bring your friends into it. Because you’ve buried them. Simple as that. Yourself too.”
Carol said, “People have already heard the truth, Lyle. They’ve been reading my paper all day. We turn up dead tomorrow and you won’t be far behind.”
“Partially right, Carol, partially right. If they found you out here on Gun’s beach with bullets in your heads, people might get a little suspicious. But that’s not gonna happen. Oh, no. What we’re going to have here is a boating accident, plain and simple. You’re on your way across the lake at night, sneaking into the county past the roadblocks, guilty as hell. Something happens and your boat goes down. It’s a foggy night, see, you’re going fast, running careless, and down under Holliman’s Bluff you run smack into Crazy Boy Rock.” Hedman shifted the weight of his shotgun into the crook of an elbow and slapped his hands together. “And that’s it,” he said. “Don’t forget what happened to young Jimmy Latchfield and his wife. Nasty bruises on their heads, but what do you expect, skull hitting rock at thirty miles an hour. They drowned twenty feet from the rock, and their boat didn’t even sink.” Hedman draped an arm around Geoff. “Of course, this guy’ll survive to tell the story.”
“Question for you,” said Jack. “If we’re as guilty as you say, then what the hell are we doing back here? How does Geoff explain that?”
Hedman licked his lips, tasted each detail. “Geoff tells people that before Gun lit out for British Columbia he had a little conversation with the Reverend Barr, told the man exactly what he was up to. Barr’s testimony, in such a case, would be vital. An impartial third-party witness, an influential man of the cloth who can verify that Gun and Jack set out with intent to commit murder. So ...” Hedman stepped backward and threw a skinny arm about Barr’s shoulders, hugged the grinning reverend close. “So here’s the deal. Geoff tells everybody that Gun and crew stole across the lake tonight for the express purpose of getting rid of the man who could fill their story with holes. They shot poor Samuel Barr in the heart and then headed back north again, only to barrel into Crazy Boy Rock and drown.”
Gun said, “Cheeseman was right. You don’t know when it’s over.”
“Lyle?” Reverend Barr pulled away from Hedman. His smile was frozen horror.
“There’s way too much riding on your ability to keep your nerve, Reverend, and I don’t think you can,” Lyle said.
“But we’ve been together on this all the way. You know you can trust me. My God!”
Hedman said, “Fraser, hand me LaSalle’s shotgun.”
The man with the hair and dark glasses did as he was told. Lyle handed his own gun to the big man, Berg. He broke open Jack’s over-and-under, made sure it was loaded.
“My God, Lyle!” Barr’s voice had lost its resonance and found a new and higher range. He folded his hands and held them up toward Lyle in the manner of an Oriental greeting. “You’re a fair man, you can’t do this.”
Hedman jammed the end of the barrel into Barr’s chest and backed him up. Barr nodded quickly, as if agreeing to an urgently given order. His lips moved silently.
Gun said, “Lyle!” and took a step forward.
“Reuben!” Hedman ordered. The dog rose from the grass at Hedman’s feet, compressed its body back into its hindquarters. It uncoiled into the air and shot straight toward Gun’s face. Gun leaned forward, locked his elbows. With both hands he caught hold of Reuben’s hard neck. The animal’s driving weight jolted him, but he held fast. Reuben’s claws slashed at Gun’s face and arms and chest. His teeth snapped like breaking ice. Gun found the dog’s windpipe with his left hand and squeezed it with all the power he could force into his damaged fist. Holding the animal in the air with one arm, he speared his right hand through the dog’s flailing legs and took firm hold on a rear thigh. He lifted Reuben high above his head The dog twisted crazily and clawed at the sky. Its tail went round and round like the blade of a fan. Gun sucked his lungs full of air, exhaled a roar, and brought the dog down spine first onto a bent knee. It sounded like the cracking of a great branch, and then Reuben was on the ground, spastic, jerking, twitching one foot, whining. His long body was bent the wrong way into a perfect vee, front and back legs pointing in opposite directions.
Hedman and Barr looked from Reuben to Gun, then at one another. Hedman raised the shotgun and put the barrel six inches from the minister’s chest. An orange fire burst from the gun’s mouth and the report was sharp yet muffled, like a firecracker under a heavy blanket. Reverend Barr hopped backward, raised a single finger, then fell to his side, and his head cracked against the stone boathouse.
