The Hunting Wind: An Alex McKnight Mystery

by Steve Hamilton

  “It was Savannah,” I said. It all came back to me. There was another side to Randy Wilkins. You didn’t see it very often. It took a lot to get him to lose control of himself. But when he did, he lost it completely. “You hit two straight batters in the head. What did you expect?”

  He took a long drink and then put the glass down. “I think I know what your problem is,” he said. His voice had changed.

  “What?” I said. “What’s my problem?”

  “The problem is that I got a shot and you didn’t. And it doesn’t help that I got to play right here in Tiger Stadium. How many times did you go and see games there when you were a kid? How many times did you dream about playing on that field someday?”

  “Randy, do you really think that I’m upset because you got to play in Tiger Stadium and I didn’t?”

  “It’s got to bother you,” he said. “Something’s bothering you.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, standing up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You wanna see the sights?” I said. “You wanna see where I grew up and where everything else happened in my whole life? Fine, I’m gonna show you.”

  I got up. As I walked out of the place, I heard Randy saying something to the boys at the bar, something cute about how they could go ahead and jump him now that I was leaving. I stood outside on Michigan Avenue, breathing in the night air. A spring night in Detroit, cold but not painful. I waited twenty seconds and then headed back inside, figuring I was going to get that bar fight whether I wanted it or not. But Randy came popping out the door and almost ran me over. He was alone and without a mark on him. Either he had talked his way out of another one or he’d killed both men with his index finger. For once, I didn’t care. This whole escapade was starting to feel like a mistake. I looked at him for a long moment without saying anything, and then I started walking down Michigan Avenue. He fell in beside me, matching my silence with his own.

  We walked past Leverette Street, the street where Randy’d had his fortune told in 1971 and met Maria and fell in love with her. Or whatever the hell had happened. Mr. Shannon, the man I had just spoken to on the phone, he was probably sitting in his living room at that very moment, a half a block down, watching the Tigers on television. Randy looked down the street but did not break stride. He did not say anything.

  The stadium loomed above us. It was dark except for a blue neon sign at the very top. DETROIT TIGERS in blue letters. Tiger blue. And a sign that glowed white, with black letters that read HOME OPENER, APRIL 19 CLEVELAND INDIANS.

  When we hit the motel parking lot, I opened up the door on my side of the truck, leaned over, and unlocked the other door. Randy got in. I pulled out of the lot, took a right and then a U-turn to go west. Because long ago somebody had decided that you don’t take left turns on major roads in the greater Detroit area. Thirty-four years, I’d lived down here, and probably one full year of that was making rights and U-turns to go left.

  I took Michigan Avenue west all the way out of Detroit, past Roosevelt Park to Dearborn. I switched over to Ford Road, drove past River Rouge Park and the Dearborn Country Club. All the way to Telegraph Road, where I had to take another right and a U-turn instead of going left. I found the old street, took a left, an honest-to-God left this time, because I was leaving the main road, went down two and a half blocks. I pulled the truck over and stopped.

  Brick houses. Just like the neighborhood back in Detroit. Maybe a little nicer. The lawns were watered a little bit better. The backyards were a little bigger. But the same idea. Brick houses in a row, with just enough room between them to drive your car into the detached garage.

  “This is where I grew up,” I said.

  Randy looked out the window. “This house here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looks like a nice house.”

  “It’s a nice house,” I said. “When I was seven years old, my mother got pancreatic cancer. She lasted a year and a half.”

  He didn’t say anything. He kept looking at the house.

  “You think a seven-year-old kid even knows what pancreatic cancer is? Or what a pancreas is? Where you even find a pancreas in your body?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “All I knew was that my mother kept losing weight and getting sicker and sicker and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “My father worked for Ford Motors,” I said. “Most people did back then. He got up every morning at five o’clock and took care of her and made me breakfast and got me off to school. We could actually walk to school back then. When school was over, I walked home. I would be alone with my mother for a couple hours. Just sitting with her. Watching her die a little bit more every day. And then my father would come home and make dinner. I never went to one baseball game the whole time she was sick, you know that? I never played baseball when she was sick. Not once. A couple months after she died, my father finally got all my baseball stuff out of the garage. I had outgrown my glove. He had to buy me a new one.”

  A car came down the street. For an instant we were blinded by the headlights. Then it was dark again.

  “When I was in high school, my father bought the land up in Paradise. I remember wondering what the hell he was doing spending all that money for a piece of land six hours away, way up there in the middle of nowhere. He took me up there, and there was nothing but pine trees. Nothing. I finally asked him why he had bought that land. You know what he said? He said he bought it because my mother had always loved the smell of Christmas trees.”

  I pulled away from the curb, made my way back to Telegraph Road. I could see Randy’s face in the light from the streetlamps. He was staring straight ahead.

  “I assume you don’t need to see where I went to school,” I said. “Or the field where I hit my first home run. When I graduated, I went right to the minors, but you know that. That season in Toledo was as close as I ever got to making the big leagues. I was disappointed that I didn’t get a call-up in September. I was envious of you, I’ll admit that. But I got over it. As a matter of fact, I think I got off pretty easy. The next year, when they traded me to the Pirates and I spent that season in Columbus, I knew I was done. At the end of that season, I knew it was time to get on with my life. How many more years did you spend chasing that dream?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. I knew that he spent six more years bouncing around between double-A and triple-A, riding the same broken-down buses and sleeping in the same lousy motel rooms. The Tigers gave up on him, but then the Athletics picked him up, and then the Dodgers, and then the White Sox.

  I was a catcher who knew how to handle pitchers but couldn’t hit .240, so my destiny was clear. But Randy had the one unforgivable talent. He had a live left arm, and when he was throwing well, he could kill left-handed batters. There would always be another team waiting to give him a chance.

  I drove north on Telegraph, all the way up to the edge of Wayne County. I did another right and U-turn to go west on Seven Mile Road. Another side street. Another row of brick houses. This neighborhood was somewhere in the middle of the scale between Detroit and Dearborn.

  “Here’s where I lived when I was married,” I said. “My wife’s name was Jean. You know, I can’t even remember the last time I said her name out loud. The day we got married, I promised her I’d spend every day with her for the rest of my life. Now I couldn’t even tell you what state she lives in.”

  “I’ve been married, Alex.” It was the first time he had spoken in the last hour. “I know what it’s like to be married.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That one you know.” I looked out at the window at the house. There was a light on in the living room. There was a family in there, watching television. Maybe one kid was doing homework. Another kid already in bed. They didn’t know we were out here, looking at the house. They didn’t know that this was once my house.

  “We lived in that house for nine years,” I said. “I was
a police officer in Detroit for most of that time. We were going to have kids, and I was going to take them up to Paradise in the summers, show them the cabins that their grandfather was building.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She was pregnant once,” I said. “She had a miscarriage. I was on duty at the time. A night shift. She drove to the hospital herself. She could have called me. I would have come and gotten her in the squad car. But she didn’t. She drove there by herself, bleeding the whole way.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  “I know that,” I said. “Just like my mother dying, right? It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Yes, Alex. That wasn’t your fault, either.”

  “Okay,” I said. I pulled away from the curb again, made my way back down Seven Mile Road to Telegraph.

  “This is the way I’d drive to work,” I said. “In the morning or at night, whenever.” This time, I got onto 1-96, which runs southeast all the way into Detroit. “I was a cop in Detroit for eight years,” I said. “I had a partner named Franklin. Big black guy, played football at the University of Michigan. We used to argue about sports all the time—you know, which sport was harder to play.”

  “Gotta be baseball,” Randy said.

  “Oddly enough, Franklin didn’t agree with that. Go figure. Anyway, one night we answered a call at the Emergency Room at Detroit Receiving Hospital. There was this . . . disturbed man there. He was bothering people, hiding behind things. Harassing the doctors and the nurses. He was wearing this big blond wig. One of the security guards at the hospital followed him back to his apartment.”

  “And?” Randy said.

  “I forgot this stretch of 1-75 is going to be closed up here,” I said. “This is the way I’d go to get to the precinct. I’m going to have to get off, get back onto Michigan Avenue again.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I’ll be able to show you the precinct this way.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what happened.”

  “You see a lot of things when you’re a cop for eight years in this city,” I said. “I saw women who had been murdered by their husbands. Or their boyfriends. Or whoever. I saw a lot of prostitutes. Some of them, God, they couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. A lot of drug dealers. Some of them were even younger.”

  Randy settled back into his seat. He let out a long breath.

  “I saw kids who had been abused by their parents,” I said. “Or by their mother’s boyfriend. Or by their older brothers. Or hell, the worst one of all, by their older sister. This little baby, he was only four months old. . . .”

  “Okay, Alex,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me all this.”

  “You came up here for one month, Randy. You got to put on a major-league uniform and pitch in Tiger Stadium. You had your fortune told by Madame Valeska and then her beautiful daughter fucked you so hard you’re still thinking about it thirty years later.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘To you, Detroit is like this dream you once had. It’s Disney World and Fantasy Island all rolled into one.”

  “Okay, Alex. I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I totally get it. Detroit is a horrible, shitty place. With drugs and crimes and murders and the most god-awful boring little brick houses I’ve ever seen. Okay? I get it.”

  I let that one hang in the air for a while. I drove down Michigan Avenue, past the ghostly ruins of the old train station. As tall as a hotel, it stood out against the night sky, blacker than the darkness itself.

  “Randy,” I said. “The next time you say stuff like that about Detroit, I’m gonna punch you right in the face. I’m serious.”

  He looked at me. “Are you not giving me the grand tour of all the reasons why I should think Detroit is a bad, bad place?”

  “No,” I said. “No.”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  I kept driving, straight toward the lights of downtown.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said. “I need to do this. I need to show this to you. All of it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m with ya. Hell, maybe you need to show it to yourself Go back over your whole life. You ever think of that?”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freud.”

  “I’m serious, Alex. Have you been back here since you got shot?”

  I drove past Tiger Stadium and our little motel and the Lindell AC, where this whole evening had started.

  “Where did it happen?” he said. “Is that where we’re going?”

  “The man at that hospital,” I said. “He lived up here on Woodward. We went to see him. We went to tell him to stop bothering people at the hospital. That’s all we wanted to do.”

  I drove north on Woodward, past the City-County Building, where we had been that afternoon, straight toward the corner of Woodward and Seward.

  “He shot us,” I said. “He shot Franklin first. Then me. I watched Franklin bleed to death on the floor next to me.”

  We drove through Grand Circus Park, empty on a cold April night.

  “I should have drawn my weapon sooner,” I said. “I didn’t do it in time.”

  We stopped for a red light at Adams Street.

  “They took two bullets out of me, but they had to leave the third one,” I said. “Franklin had a wife and two little girls. I didn’t go to the funeral. I was in the hospital. When I got out . . .”

  The light turned green. I didn’t move.

  “I drank a lot. Jean divorced me. I took disability, moved up to my father’s cabins in Paradise. It took me fourteen years to be able to sleep at night without taking pills.”

  From behind us, a horn blew.

  “I finally saw the man who shot us,” I said. “In prison. I finally saw him face-to-face.”

  The horn blew again. I took my foot off the brake, touched the accelerator.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen the building. Where it happened. This is where it happened.”

  Grand Boulevard. We were a few blocks away. I held on tight to the steering wheel.

  “I could have drawn my weapon, Randy. I could have shot him before he shot us. It was my fault that Franklin died.”

  We came to Seward Street. I stopped in the middle of the intersection. The same horn blew behind us again. But I didn’t care.

  Where the apartment building had once stood, there was now only a construction fence. The ground inside the fence was covered with straw.

  “It’s gone,” I said. “The building is fucking gone. They tore it down.”

  We were two blocks away from where they were building the new stadium. This whole corner had been mowed down. The whole block. Half the city, it seemed. Torn down to make way for a new stadium and casinos and God knows what else.

  The horn kept blowing behind me.

  “Can we get out of here before we get killed?” Randy said.

  I drove through the intersection, hung a left on Euclid and another on Cass, back to Michigan Avenue. Back to our motel and the Lindell AC. We’d sit right at the bar this time. If those two men were still there, Randy would buy them drinks. If we were lucky, we’d catch Johnny Butsakaris’s eye and call him over, and I’d get to hear Randy’s story again.

  “Alex,” he said, “I’m sorry about what I said.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m sorry I lied to you in the bar. I’ll never do it again.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t hit a curveball.”

  “Randy,” I said. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Ask away, my friend.”

  “Was that really vodka and root beer in that glass?”

  “It was indeed. The slinky.”

  “You really are crazy, you know that? I mean, I’ve said it a million times, but you really are crazy.”

  “Of course I’m crazy,” he said. “Why else would I be here?”
/>   CHAPTER 7

  We didn’t get up quite as early as we had planned the next morning. But then we hadn’t planned on staying so late at the Lindell AC. My head was throbbing when I got up, and it didn’t look like Randy was feeling any better. The one thing I had going for me was the fact that I had refused to try his stupid slinky. So at least I wouldn’t be tasting vodka and root beer all day.

  And whatever had happened between us the previous night, that was done and gone. Like when you have a rough game one night and you forget all about it before the game on the very next day.

  After a couple hot showers and some aspirin, we were new men. We headed out into another Michigan April day, with gray clouds and a cold wind whipping down Michigan Avenue. We went east to Woodward, then north toward the library. We stopped at a flower shop and Randy went in to pick out something nice for the lady at the library who had been so helpful to Leon. Randy came back out with enough flowers for a wedding reception.

  “First-class all the way,” he said. I just shook my head and kept driving. A few blocks later, we parked in front of the Detroit Public Library. It was a massive building of stone, the same shade of gray as the sky. When we walked into the main lobby and asked about the Burton Historical Collection, we were sent to the opposite side of the building, where the doors opened onto Cass Avenue, on either side of a huge globe. We took a right and found the room. The collection itself, mostly reference material from an entire century, was stored in bookshelves both here on the ground floor and above, on a balcony that ran along three of the walls. The fourth wall was all windows. Across the street, we could see the Detroit Institute of the Arts. There were flags advertising a van Gogh exhibit. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered reading that van Gogh was left-handed. Another crazy southpaw.

  We found the librarian who had worked with Leon over the phone. She was a trim black woman in her fifties, with the eyeglasses and the hair in the bun that all librarians are required to have. But there was a sparkle in her eye that said something a little different. Randy buried the poor woman in the flowers before I could even tell her who we were.