November Hunt

by Jess Lourey

  “Only plain rippled, lotsa salt.”

  Shame is for sissies. “I’m in.”

  He leaned back in his chair, grabbed a silver bag from the nearest cupboard, and tossed it to me. Then he stood to pull two Heinekens out of the fridge, popped their caps with the edge of a lighter, and passed me one. I took a deep swallow, letting the rich, bitter liquid coat my tongue before swallowing.

  “I see you’re a fan of beer.”

  I opened my eyes. “Haven’t had one in a while.”

  He nodded as if he understood, and went back to his sandwich. He’d done a lot for me. He’d saved me from an ice cubing when we’d first met and nurtured Jed’s creativity and responsibility. I popped a potato chip in my mouth. “When you were in high school, do you remember hearing about a group of guys who called themselves the Four Musketeers?”

  “Sure.” He drank an inch of beer. “Everyone knew about the Musketeers. Tom Kicker was one of them. That why you’re asking?”

  “Yeah. What were they like?”

  He considered my question, playing with his beer cap. “Young. Entitled. All of them except for Clive was the son of a rich man. Nothing special in any of them, that I saw. I suppose none of them moved very far away from here. This area’s been good to them.”

  “You know where Clive and Tom ended up. Mitchell inherited his dad’s hunt club over by Millerville. Frederick ended up a lawyer in Fergus.”

  Something flashed in Monty’s eyes. “Frederick? You mean Freddy ‘Fingers’ Milton?”

  “I suppose.”

  “He added some respectable syllables to his name to distance himself from his shoplifting days, then.”

  “He’s running for county commissioner.”

  Monty sighed. “That’s the way that works. Let’s hope he’s a changed man.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, the beer warming my belly pleasantly. “Were you around in 1962 when the girl was raped?” I recounted the story and filled him in on my belief that three of the Four Musketeers had been responsible for the attack, and that Clive was now dating the woman they’d assaulted. The more I talked, the quieter Monty grew. When I finished, he was gripping his green bottle so tightly I was afraid it’d shatter.

  “You need to warn Carla. Now.”

  The urgency in his voice tripped my panic wire. “You think she’s in danger?”

  “Your theory has a hole. A hole big enough to drive a truck through. Clive was no innocent to that attack. They didn’t call them the Four Musketeers for nothing.”

  “But that makes no sense. Why would he date a woman he’d attacked?”

  “You’ve met Mitchell, Clive, and Freddy. Right? And you know of Tom and Lyle. How would you describe the first three?”

  “Mitchell and Frederick make my skin crawl. Clive may be a good guy, but he’s made a lot of bad choices.”

  “Would you call him easily influenced?”

  I thought back to what I knew of him. “I’m not sure. You probably know him better than me.”

  “Then neither of us knows him well. What’s your take on Tom and Lyle?”

  “Tom was a saint, by all accounts. Lyle was rough around the edges, but he didn’t send up any red flags.”

  “Exactly. From what you’ve told me tonight, Clive, Tom, and Lyle were the weak links. If someone wanted to make sure the story of the rape was buried forever, say someone running for county commissioner who had to make sure his ugly past didn’t find him, he’d need to deal with those three. He bribes Clive to shoot Tom and then Lyle. Once Clive’s in that deep, he’ll never talk. That leaves only one person who could ever damage Frederick or Mitchell.”

  My stomach tightened into a fist. “Carla.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “No, but she’s probably at work.” I glanced toward the window. The snow was swirling as thick as fog. “Can I use your phone?” I dialed Bonnie & Clyde’s. It rang, and rang, and rang. There was no answering machine. I wasn’t surprised that Ruby didn’t own one. If she was too busy to answer, she’d figure the person could call back. I hung up after the twelfth ring.

  “No answer?” he asked.

  I shook my head and looked toward the window again. I could no longer make out the street lights.

  He grimaced. “You want me to drive?”

  “It’d save you from pulling me out of the ditch later.”

  We both bundled up and headed to his old Ford pickup, the safest tank in the Minnesota arsenal. The drive to Bonnie & Clyde’s was tense. When we arrived, the parking lot was jammed with snowmobiles fast becoming drifted over with hungry snow. Inside, the place was crawling with sled riders, bulky in their snowsuits open to their waists, drinking with the fervor of someone who doesn’t think they’ll need to drive home. I elbowed my way through, ignoring the greetings from those who recognized me from the library. The smell of melting snow and two-stroke fuel was strong. When I finally caught Ruby’s attention, she said Carla had the night off and gave me directions to her house.

  Monty barreled along the dirt roads. I held on to his dashboard to keep from flying against the passenger door. I loved my Toyota, but she wouldn’t have stood a fighting chance in this white-out. We already had over two inches of snow accumulation, and the storm hadn’t even tuned its piano. The swirling white was disorienting, blanketing everything equally so the unplowed road blended with the ditch.

  Carla’s was the last house on a dead end road, an ugly single-wide trailer in a copse of scraggly elms. Her rusted Buick was a car-shaped snow sculpture leading to the front door. I felt a respite from the panic that had been riding me here. There were no footprints in the snow, no tracks in the driveway. Carla could be home safe, riding out the storm.

  I hopped out of the pickup and waded through the snow to the front entrance. I had to kick aside a drift to yank open the screen door. No one answered my insistent knocking. I tried yelling, but no response.

  “No.” Monty peering through the front window, hands cupped around his eyes.

  I jumped off the steps and waded over next to him, disregarding the scratching skeleton of a rose bush. I had to perch on tiptoes to spot what he saw. All around the main room was the evidence of a struggle—a plant fallen to the floor, its black dirt spread out like a fan, a broken glass, a shelf tipped over. In the middle of the mess sprawled Carla, motionless, her arm twisted underneath her.

  Thirty-five

  I scrambled back onto the steps and tried the door. Locked. I felt the top of the frame for a spare key and only succeeded in bringing snow down on my head. Monty pushed me aside and put his shoulder to the door. It didn’t budge. He ran back to his truck and returned with a crowbar, which he slid between the lock and the door jamb. He grunted and gave it a heave. The entrance gave way. He rushed in with me on his heels. We flipped Carla over, gently. Her dishwater-blonde hair was matted to her face, and her mouth was slack. Unconscious and without her make-up, she looked much younger, vulnerable.

  “She’s breathing,” he said.

  “Are there any wounds?”

  “Not that I can see.” He patted her face lightly. “Carla.”

  She moaned and shifted her head away from his hand.

  “Her neck seems to be okay. Let’s get her on the couch.”

  I bent forward to help. “Cripes. Her breath smells like 100-proof rubbing alcohol.”

  Monty nodded grimly, checking her face and arms for bruises and finding none. “You better put some coffee on. I’d say she wasn’t attacked. She’s on a fall-down drunk bender.”

  Disgusted and relieved, I did as he suggested. I found the kitchen in the same state as the living room. I picked up as best I could while the coffee brewed, closing cereal boxes and stashing them in the cupboard, loading the dishwasher, wiping off counters. I knew how demoralizing it is to wake up painfully hung over with a messy kitchen to boot. When I returned with a steaming cup of brew, Monty had the front door closed and Carla awake, more or less.

  “Here
you go.” I handed her the mug. She took it, bleary-eyed, just another small town gal who drank too much. “Sorry about your lock. We thought you were dead.”

  “Then what was your hurry?” She took a sip of the coffee. It was hot enough to burn her lips, but she didn’t flinch.

  I didn’t see a reason to mince words. “I know your story. About what happened in ’62. I think you’re in danger now because of it.”

  She shot me a face so comically puzzled that I’d have laughed if it wasn’t for the seriousness of the situation. “Hunh?”

  “In 1962, a Battle Lake woman was raped. The Four Musketeers were there that night, but a guy named Lyle Christopherson ended up going to jail for the crime. The woman was never identified in the papers.”

  “And you think I’m her?”

  “You’re not?” Monty asked.

  She laughed, and it turned into a smoker’s hack. She took the reminder to heart and grabbed for a crumpled pack of Merit cigarettes. “No. I know the story too, but it’s not mine. Clive told me all about it during one of his more talkative drinking sprees. He was one of them Musketeers. All four of them did wrong by that girl. Every one of them, including Tom Kicker. Clive made a point of saying Tom wasn’t in on the worst of it, but he wasn’t no prince either, not like he wanted people to believe. Clive said Tom tried to buy his way into heaven every day after that, whatever the hell that means.”

  I slanted my eyes at Monty. He’d been right about all four of the Musketeers being involved, including Clive. He was standing, tense, his fists clenched at his side.

  “So Clive admitted to the rape? Did he tell you the four of them let another man go to jail for it?”

  “He never mentioned that.”

  “Who was the girl?” The question rose like thunder from Monty’s chest.

  “It wasn’t me, and that’s all I know for sure. Is there any more coffee?”

  I took her mug and brought her back a refill. When I returned, Monty was at the front window, watching the snow channel. I sat next to Carla. “Did Clive ever talk about shooting Tom?”

  “God, no. That’s a subject we did not touch.”

  “Do you think it was an accident?”

  She checked out my face. “Of course it was. Tom was Clive’s only steady friend. It was a terrible accident. It was a tragedy for Clive and a sad day for the whole damn county. Tom did good by people around here. I suppose it’s the worst for his girl though, Hallie. I feel terrible for her, losing her dad like that and with no mom. Without her real mom, I mean. Clara.”

  My heart felt as if a cold wet thread was being drawn slowly out of it. “What did you say?”

  “Clara. Hallie’s birth mom.”

  Thirty-six

  “Clive mentioned her once or twice. Her name’s real close to mine, is I guess why it stuck. I just think it’s a shame that a woman can lose her father and be in and out of the hospital like that poor Hallie, and with her mother no longer around to comfort her. She died giving birth to Hallie. I’m sure her stepmom did just fine, but there’s nothing like your real mom when life gets hard.”

  I’d tuned her out after I heard the name. Catherine, Tom’s ex, hadn’t been certain of the name of the girl who had been raped. Carla, she’d thought. She’d been real close. Clara. Tom had married his victim and raised her child as if she were his own. Clive said Tom tried to buy his way into heaven every day after that, whatever the hell that means.

  Monty was at my side. “What is it?”

  “We have to go.” Numb, I wandered outside. The air smelled a bit like steel, and the icy edges of plummeting flakes scratched at my cheeks. There was a total hush in the jaws of the snowstorm, an absence of sound that raised my hackles. Tom had told Catherine part of the truth, which is the main ingredient of all good lies. Clara had been pregnant by the rape, and a man had married her and raised the daughter. What he hadn’t told her, of course, was that he was the man.

  Monty followed me, making sure that Carla’s front door closed tightly before jogging ahead to start the truck.

  When I climbed into the vehicle, he told me he felt bad about her door. I didn’t care. “Monty, I had it all wrong.”

  “It was an honest mistake. I’ll come back out tomorrow and fix it, when the snow lets up.” He started the truck and steered us onto the back road.

  “No, I know the identity of the woman who was attacked. Her name was Clara, not Carla. Tom Kicker’s first wife and Hallie’s mom.”

  An icy shoulder caught the truck and began pulling it into the ditch, but Monty fought back with a sharp turn of the wheel. “Tom Kicker married the woman he raped?”

  “We don’t know whether or not he raped her. You heard Carla. Clive said Tom wasn’t in on the worst of it, although it appears he didn’t do anything to stop it, either.”

  “Holy terror,” he said. “What men will do.”

  I rubbed my mittened hands together. It had grown cold in the cab. “The others must know that Tom married Clara, and that one of the three of them has a daughter.”

  “That’d be a difficult fact to hide. So why kill Tom and Lyle now?”

  Why is it that the truth is so obvious once you know it? “I told you Hallie’s in and out of the hospital.”

  “Right. Kidney problems.”

  “Yeah. She said she’s in the early stages of kidney failure.”

  Monty closed his eyes in understanding. “She needs a kidney.”

  “I’m guessing. And if I’m not mistaken, family is the first place you’d look for a donation.” I wanted to smack my own head. “She’ll find out soon if she doesn’t know already that Tom isn’t her birth father.”

  “Not her birth father, but the man who raised her. If he loved her, he’d need to tell her who her other potential matches would be.”

  “Which explains the fight Hallie overheard between Tom and Clive, right before Clive shot Tom.”

  Monty picked up the thread of my story. “Clive must have gone to Frederick and Mitchell to let them know what was in the pipeline. They pool their money and convince Clive to shoot Tom and then Lyle, leaving only the victim as their weak link. Clara. But she’s already dead.”

  “You think they’ll stop there?”

  “I wouldn’t. Not if I’d come this far. Hallie may know about the incident, or find out one day. As long as she’s alive, she’s walking DNA proof of something three men have already killed to keep silent.”

  “How fast can we get to Hallie’s place?”

  “I’m on it.”

  Thirty-seven

  From a driving perspective, the only positive of a screaming blizzard is that it keeps everyone else off the highway. Even so, Monty crawled along at 30 mph, using the occasional road sign as visual evidence that we were still on the road and not four-wheeling through some field. Both of us leaned forward tensely, our heads unconsciously trying to arrive at our destination as soon as possible.

  Monty stabbed on the radio.

  “… worst blizzard of the decade. Mn/DOT has shut down Interstate 94 from Fargo to St. Cloud. If you don’t need to be on the roads …”

  He punched the button again to drown out the sound. “I’d pay money to be able to tune in a jazz station around these parts.”

  “You could get a portable CD player, maybe.” He didn’t respond. I found I needed to cover the animal howl of the storm, so I filled the air with inane chatter. “So you lived in Turkey. Is that where you learned to make hummus?”

  “I lived all over.”

  “But you or Jed, I forget which, mentioned that you learned to blow glass in Turkey.”

  “That’s true. I learned it in prison.”

  I glared sharply at him. “What were you in prison for?”

  “In Turkey, it doesn’t take much. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s all?”

  “The pocket full of opium didn’t do me any favors.”

  “I see. Turkish prison as bad as they say?”


  “A thousand times worse. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. How old were you when you left Battle Lake?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “What’d your parents do?”

  “Farmers. They owned nearly eight hundred acres in the county and did very well by it.”

  “Are they still around?”

  “Dead. Came back for my mother’s funeral and didn’t leave, remember? I have one sister. She lives in Des Moines. I haven’t seen her in years.”

  I peeked at the road. Snowflakes attacked the windshield and headlights like tiny tentacles, sticking, confusing. “I’m sorry.”

  His shoulders tightened. It might have been a shrug.

  “Who’d you hang out with back when you lived here?”

  “Always been a loner.”

  “But you knew about the Four Musketeers.”

  “Sure enough.”

  “You never said if you were around in 1962 when Clara was attacked.”

  “I was. I’d be mighty happy to see some justice done. I’ve always felt bad for that girl in the yellow dress.”

  Watching him, I felt hot worms begin to crawl over my skin. How was it that I could have been so close to solving this mystery, but so horribly wrong? The newspaper hadn’t mentioned the yellow dress. I hadn’t told Monty about the yellow dress. I only knew what the girl had been wearing the night she’d been raped because Lyle had confessed it to me. Someone would have had to have been there that night to know.

  Monty kept his eyes pinned to the road, his face tight under the ridiculous pompom hat. When I was in the secret room at the hunt club, I’d overheard that Mitchell hailed from Brandon and not Battle Lake, but I hadn’t registered the importance of that fact. The Four Musketeers had all gone to high school in Battle Lake. Monty, not Mitchell, was the fourth Musketeer.

  Thirty-eight

  It was Monty who had fled Battle Lake shortly after the incident, who knew too much about it, who had made sure to drive me tonight once he knew I was getting too close to the truth. It was likely even he who had placed the threatening phone call. He was the fourth Musketeer, the missing link, the man who had a record and a lot of incentive to not return to prison.