Winter of the Wolf Moon: A Mystery

by Steve Hamilton

  “That is strange,” I said. “Although I suppose if something set him off—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand people at all,” she said.

  “Mrs. Hudson, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to help us like this.”

  “I hope they catch that man,” she said. She looked me in the eyes for a long moment. “But you’re just looking for the girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We are.”

  “Well, I hope you find her,” she said. “Like I said, she didn’t look like she belonged with those people …”

  We both thanked her a few more times, for the help, for the coffee, for the apple pie. When we had seen her back into her house, I walked Leon to his car and took out my wallet. “How much did you say you spent at the hockey rink?”

  “Forget it, Alex. We’re partners. It’s all part of the case.”

  “Leon, there is no case.” The snow was coming down hard now. It had covered Leon’s red hair in just the few minutes we had been outside. “And we’re not really partners,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m not a private investigator. I told you that”

  “You sure are acting like one,” he said.

  “No, you are,” I said. “You’re the one who found this house.”

  “But it doesn’t tell you much, does it?” he said. “You need more.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t even know what to do next.”

  “When we were looking at that apartment,” he said, “what did you mean when you said it looked familiar?”

  “He trashed my place, too,” I said. “Sometime yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? But he took Dorothy on Friday night. Why would he come back?”

  “To make a point,” I said. “Or to look for his lucky hockey puck. I don’t know.”

  “His lucky hockey puck?”

  “Gordie Howe signed it,” I said. “Dorothy gave it to me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “His lucky hockey puck. That’s good. What else can you tell me? Tell me everything else you know, Alex.”

  “There’s nothing else,” I said. “Except …” I let out a long breath into the cold air while I decided how much I wanted to tell him.

  “Except what, Alex?”

  “Except the fact that two men have been following me.”

  “A-ha! That’s something.” He was trying to act smooth, but I could hear the excitement in his voice. “Have you gotten a good look at them?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I don’t recognize either one of them. I don’t think they were playing on Bruckman’s hockey team the other night.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “So what now?”

  “I pay you and you go home before the snow gets any worse.”

  “I’m not taking your money, Alex.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Give me something else to do,” he said. “I want to work on this with you. What else am I going to do? Go back and try to sell snowmobiles? Talk to guys from Detroit all day, pretend I give a fuck what kind of trails they like riding on?”

  “Leon …”

  “This is the only thing I want to do,” he said. “Let me help you, Alex.”

  “If I think of something,” I said, “then I’ll call you. Okay?”

  He thought that over. “Good enough,” he said. “We’ll stay in touch. You have my number, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, walking to my truck.

  “And my pager number, right?”

  “I have it,” I said.

  “Call me when you need me, Alex. Day or night.”

  “Okay,” I said. I climbed into the truck and closed the door. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it.

  I fired up the truck and brushed the snow off my hair while I waited for the heater. Then I picked up the phone and called the sheriff’s office again. He still wasn’t in, and the woman still wouldn’t give me his home number. Instead of trying to leave him a message again, as long as I was in town I figured I’d just go to his office and write it myself.

  I pulled out of the driveway and headed west toward the City-County Building. I didn’t see anybody following me, but the snow was bad enough now, they probably couldn’t even drive in it. I was an idiot myself for being out here, but what else was new?

  It took me a good twenty minutes to travel three miles across town. I pulled in behind the building next to the sheriff’s office. The little jail courtyard was empty of everything but a waist-high drift of snow. As soon as I got inside the place, a deputy stopped me. “You shouldn’t be out, sir,” he said. “There’s a state of emergency.”

  “I just have to leave a message for the sheriff,” I said. I asked for a piece of paper and pen, and wrote down everything I would have told him if he was there to hear it. My place was trashed yesterday. I know Bruckman’s place was trashed, too. Yes, I found out where he was staying. Two men are following me. Don’t know who they are. Here’s their license plate number. Please run it and call me as soon as you can. Beers are on me. Thank you. Signed Alex.

  I put the paper in an envelope and pushed it under his door. “Please tell him there’s an urgent message for him,” I told the deputy.

  “You’re not going back out in this snow, are you?”

  “This is nothing,” I said. “I can still see my truck out there.”

  The deputy just shook his head as I left. When I was back in my truck and ready to head out, somebody rapped on my window. I turned to see Chief Maven’s face a few inches from my own. My bad weekend had just gotten worse.

  “McKnight!” he yelled at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I rolled down the window. “Chief Maven,” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “There’s a state of emergency,” he said. “That means you keep your ass off the road.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” I said. “But I’m not spending the night here. If you’ll excuse me …”

  “As soon as you hit that street,” he said, “you’re breaking the law.”

  “I can see right through you, Chief. You just want me to stay here so I’ll be close to you. Isn’t that right?”

  Maven shook his head and looked up at the sky. When he looked me in the eye again, he was smiling. It was a horrible sight. “Okay, McKnight. You go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

  I hesitated. This is a trap, I thought. As soon as I go out on that street, he comes and gets me, and then gives me a ticket.

  “Go on,” he said. “Go home and build a snowman or something.”

  “Okay, I’m going,” I said. He can’t give me a ticket. It would be entrapment, right?

  “Have a nice day,” he said. “Drive carefully.”

  “I will,” I said. I put the truck in gear, looked at him one more time, and then punched it. He stepped backwards, but not quickly enough to avoid the spray from my back wheels. When I was a half a block down the street I looked back and saw him brushing himself off. Then I saw him wave to me. You’re hallucinating, I told myself. The snow has finally driven you crazy.

  I made my way back to 75. The snowplows were fighting a losing battle, but it was clear enough for me to get through. M-28 was a little worse, but I was fine as long as I kept it under twenty miles an hour. It was a long, hard ride, but I was tired and hungry and thirsty, and I wanted to get to the Glasgow. I pictured a steak sandwich with grilled onions and a cold Canadian in front of the fire and kept going. When I got to the turnoff for Paradise, I had been on the road for a good ninety minutes. I fought my way into town, seeing only the occasional snowmobile. Everyone else was smart enough to be inside.

  I finally saw the Glasgow Inn appear on the right side of the road. I was about to pull in when an unwelcome thought hit me. My road was filling up with snow fast, and if I didn’t go plow it a few times during the evening, by morning there would be too much snow to plow at all. I’d have to wait for the backhoes to come dig me out, along with everybody in the cabins.
Goddamn it all, I said to myself. I better go give it a run now before I get comfortable. Or I’ll never do it.

  I kept going up the main road and then turned left onto my access road, lowering the plow into the snow. It was a hard push, but with all the weight I had in the back of the truck, I was able to make my way all the way down the last cabin. I turned the truck around and came back down. I should plow out Vinnie, I thought. Was Vinnie’s car there? I didn’t even notice. I should probably do my driveway, too.

  I slowed down near my own cabin and started pushing the snow off the driveway. It was the middle of the day, but with the sun hidden behind the clouds and the weight of snow in the air, there was an oddly muted light, dim yet persistent as each snowflake seemed to glow with its own energy. I stopped for a moment to watch the snowfall, hypnotized by the sight of it and by the sound of my own breathing.

  And then I noticed that my door was open again.

  “Now what?” I said aloud. I left the truck running, the headlights pointing off into the trees. It must have blown open again, I thought. I wonder how much snow will be in there this time.

  When I stepped into my cabin, something hit me in the stomach, knocking the wind right out of me. I went down on my knees. I couldn’t breathe. The next blow came to the side of my head, sending me sideways on the rough wood floor. I tried to reach into my coat pocket for my gun, but I never made it. Somebody was grabbing each of my arms and pulling me to my feet. I took a few shots to the ribs, started to sag back down to my knees, and was pulled up again. I couldn’t see anything. The room was dark. Finally, my eyes came back into focus and I saw that there were five men in the room. A man holding my left arm, another on my right. Two behind me. And in front of me … I knew that face.

  I felt his hand on my throat. “Start talking,” he said.

  I tried to draw a breath. I looked at him and said nothing.

  He pulled out a gun. He held it to my forehead. I could feel the cold touch of steel against my skin. “I said start talking,” he said. “What did you do to her?”

  I found my voice. “What the fuck are you talking about, Bruckman?”

  He pressed the gun into my forehead. “She came here,” he said. “And now she’s gone. What did you do to her?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m going to count to three,” he said, “and then I’m going to blow the top of your head off.” He put his face in front of mine, close enough for me to see the madness in his eyes. “Where is Dorothy?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I didn’t like the way Bruckman was holding the gun. Beyond the simple fact that he was pointing it at my head. The way it was shaking in his hand, I was afraid he’d shoot me without even meaning to. It had been three days since I saw him on the ice rink. Whatever was racing through his blood that night, there had to be twice as much of it now. He was practically vibrating.

  “Put the gun down,” I said.

  “Talk,” he said.

  “After you put the gun down.”

  “You’ve got three seconds,” he said. “Start talking. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is,” I said.

  He switched the gun over to his left hand and then hit me across the face with his right. It was more of a slap than an outright punch, but it was enough to make me taste blood.

  “Where is she?” he asked again.

  “You took her,” I said. “Why are you asking me?”

  He switched hands, then hit me again. It would have been a lot more efficient to just keep the gun in his right hand and hit me in the face with that, but I wasn’t about to make the suggestion.

  “I swear to God, Bruckman. I thought you took her. I’ve been looking for you.”

  He took a long breath, shivering from the cold or from whatever drags he was on, or some combination of both. He looked at the men on either side of me. I could feel their grips tightening on each arm. I didn’t know what the two men behind me were doing. They were probably just getting ready to kick me again when the time came.

  “She was here,” he said. “And she brought something with her. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He didn’t hit me this time. He took a two-handed grip on the gun, pointed it between my eyes, and said, “Where?”

  “If your friends will let go of me, I’ll get it,” I said. I thought about the gun in my right-hand pocket.

  “Tell me.”

  “Let me get it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s in this pocket,” I said. I looked down to my left. Please don’t go for the other pocket, I thought.

  The man on my left dug into my pocket and came out with the hockey puck.

  “What is it?” Bruckman asked.

  The man threw it to him. Bruckman caught it and looked at it. “What the fuck is this?”

  “It’s your hockey puck,” I said.

  “My hockey puck.” He kept looking at it like he had never seen one before.

  “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “This is a joke, right?” he said. “You think I came all the way out here for a fucking hockey puck?”

  “It’s signed by Gordie Howe,” I said. “I knew you’d want it back. That’s why I saved it for you. And now that you’ve got it back, why don’t I get us all a beer?”

  There was a silence, then a slight flex in his hands. Then the gunshot ripped everything apart. As it roared through my ears I was back in that apartment in Detroit, lying on the floor next to my partner.

  The blood. I am dying.

  The gunshot ringing in my ears.

  I am dying and my partner is dying because I didn’t go for my gun.

  No. I’m not bleeding. I am in my cabin. Bruckman fired over my head, into the wooden wall. The men have let go of me. My arms are free. The gun. My right pocket.

  I went for the pocket. I fumbled around for what seemed like an eternity, finally found the opening and reached in for the gun. I felt the cold weight of it. Pull it out and fire. Shoot the fuckers one by one, starting with Bruckman.

  I tried to pull out the gun. I felt a hand on my arm. Then another. My arm bent back, the tendons stretching to the breaking point. The gun falling to the floor; the dull thud of the metal hitting wood.

  Then Bruckman’s voice against my ear. “I’ll fuck you up so bad, McKnight. I swear to God I’m gonna fucking kill you.” He gave me a shot to the ribs, the same place he had hit before. My breath was gone again. This time I thought I would never get it back.

  “Somebody’s gonna hear us,” one of the men behind me said. “Did you ever think about that?”

  “Joe, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Bruckman said to him without taking his eyes off me.

  Breathe, goddamn it. Why can’t I breathe?

  “There’s other cabins,” the man named Joe said. “They’re gonna call the police.”

  The other man behind me spoke up. “The police ain’t our biggest problem,” he said. “Look at this place.”

  “Who did this?” Bruckman said. “Who trashed your place?”

  Breathe. I still cannot breathe.

  “Who did this?”

  I held my hand up as I fought for air. Finally, it came to me, as if I had just come up from the bottom of the ocean. “You,” I said. “You did this.”

  Bruckman grabbed my hair and put the gun under my chin. “You’re really pissing me off here, you know that? Now listen to me very carefully. I’m gonna go through this nice and slow so even you can understand it.”

  His face was less than six inches from mine. There was a sickly sweetness to his breath that was worse than any gin drank.

  “She came out here Friday night,” he said. “She found you at that bar down the road. Am I right?”

  I didn’t say anything. He dug the point of the gun into my neck. I swallowed and said, “Yes, she was there.”

  “She left with you, didn’t she? In that p
iece of shit truck of yours with the window missing.”

  I nodded.

  “Did she give you a little hummer in the parking lot before you left?”

  I stared into his eyes.

  “Then you came back here to your cabin, right? An old man like you, she probably wore you out in five minutes. Am I right?”

  “Lonnie,” the man on my left said, “cut the shit.”

  “Shut up, Stan,” he said to the man. And then to me, “How many times did you fuck her, McKnight? I want to know.”

  “I didn’t touch her,” I said.

  “I know most goalies are faggots, McKnight. But I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care what you believe,” I said.

  “Fine,” he said. “You were the perfect gentleman. Now tell me where the bag is.”

  “What bag?”

  “She had a white bag with her. Made of cloth or something.”

  “Canvas,” the man on my left said. The man on my right hadn’t said a word yet. His only contribution had been nearly twisting my arm off my body and making me drop the gun. Was it on the floor still? I couldn’t see it anywhere.

  “Canvas,” Bruckman said. “Thank you. The bag was made of fucking canvas.”

  I tried to remember. Yes, she did have a bag with her. It was white, and yes, it looked like it was made of canvas. She wouldn’t let me carry it for her.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I said. I didn’t see any reason not to. Although I knew he wouldn’t like it. “The next morning she was gone. The bag was gone, too. I thought you had taken her. That’s why I was looking for you.”

  “You’re lying,” he said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Look at this place,” one of the men behind me said. “Lonnie, I’m just thinking, you know, about who could’ve done this.”

  “Shut up, Stan! Goddamn it, will you just shut up for a minute!”

  “Look around, Lonnie! Who else could it be?”

  “If it was them and they found the bag here,” he said, looking at me, “then this fucker would be dead already.”