by Chuck Logan
Extend all shifts. Go down the list. Wake ’em up and tell ’em to get in here. Shoot two men to Emery’s house to back up Jerry. Get two more out to Jay Cox’s trailer—you know where that is?”
322 / CHUCK LOGAN
The dispatcher nodded. “Where Jesse’s at.”
“Right.”
“I volunteer not to be in that party,” said Morris.
“Anybody cruising up north call them down, work County Road X, Y, and Highway 7. Tell them to arrest Larry Emery on sight.”
“What’s the charge?” The dispatcher was disbelieving.
“Aggravated assault on this guy,” Hakala pointed to Harry.
“Jesus, Mike, a bar fight?”
“Listen, dummy. Jerry had to cuff Emery last night!”
The dispatcher’s mouth dropped open. “You ain’t kidding.”
“Billy, I’m telling you, he’s finally flipped. Could be bad craziness.
He’s on foot, last we heard. Probably armed for bear. Jerry thinks he’s moving around the base of Nanabozho. If anybody reports a missing vehicle, jump on it. And call the fucking Highway Patrol.
Call Lake and Cook. Do it, Billy. Armed and dangerous. All that good shit. Do it now!”
Billy bent his microphone. With his other hand he picked up the phone, referred to a list of numbers taped to the desk, and started punching numbers as he spoke into the mike. “Net Call! Listen up out there…”
Harry followed Hakala to his office. Hakala scattered paper on his desk. “Goddamn. Goddamn. Knew I should have done something about the drinking. Ah, here it is. In Duluth, at the Radisson.” He handed Harry the message slip.
Harry put it in his pocket. “How bad a spot you figure you’re in?”
Hakala grinned. “Oh, I just ignored a police report that a kid was threatening the life of his future stepfather and didn’t bust him when he was caught carrying a concealed weapon. Instead I let his real father take him out and teach him to shoot a rifle. Accessory is the term that comes to mind.” Hakala waved his arms. “Hey. We’re doing it. We’ll find him. Don’t get carried away.”
“Then why all the extra cops?”
“It’s Larry. It could get out of hand. Shit, I don’t like it.
HUNTER’S MOON / 323
Coming off that basement stuff is like taking a leap of faith except it’s not faith, it’s dread. I’m bringing in an army. What if it’s just him drunk and hitting you in the nose? I’ll get laughed out of the county.”
“You weren’t talking like that twenty minutes ago.”
Hakala shuddered. “That’s it. I gotta go with my gut.” He reached in his desk drawer, took out a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, toasted Harry, and swigged. “To the public safety.”
Then he grabbed the phone, punched in a number, and raked his knuckles across the stubble on his jowls. “It’s me,” he said, “wake up our number-one son.” He put his hand over the receiver. “I don’t think Emery will go after Maston. Sounds like he isn’t thinking that far in advance. I think he’ll head for you out at the lodge. How are you at playing tethered goat?”
Hakala turned his attention back to the phone. “Mitchell, this is the guy who pays the mortgage. Rouse your young ass and go find Becky. Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t know where she is. Find her and get her to the police station. Tell you later. I know what time it is. Just do it.”
On the way to the front door two deputies looked up from a map and the one talking on the phone yelled, “You want a SWAT team?”
“Why not?” groaned Mike Hakala.
52
Tethered goat implies lion.
If he didn’t keep his mind flexed just right, he got this image of Larry Emery sitting at that kitchen table with his elbows in a puddle of Campbell’s soup, cutting Jesse’s face out of pictures, and a chill began to curl at the back of his neck.
Like something you read in seedy news shorts buried in the Met section—estranged boyfriend comes after woman and her new lover.
Later, he bounces off the blood-spattered walls blubbering “I’m sorry” to the coppers.
324 / CHUCK LOGAN
Fear worked up through the floor and puckered his asshole and cotton-mouthed him dry of spit. His blood congealed into a billion floaty bubbles of pressure-sensitive mercury and with Mount Palomar eyes he saw Larry Emery ready to pounce in every snow-dancing shadow.
The deputies Mike Hakala put around him did little to diminish his anxiety. They’d pulled their trucks off the road and now three of them squatted outside the lodge in the trees. Morris sat in the corner of the main room with firelight glimmering on the barrel of his 12-gauge and, on the ride up from town, communication with the deputy had consisted of one laconic question: “Larry do that to your face?” And Harry nodded and Morris sucked on his teeth.
Morris was a wiry man and his black sideburns trimmed crafty pointed features and he wore his shiny dark hair swept up and back with Brylcreem. Thirty years ago in high school he would have worn his shirt collar up and his jeans down to the crack of his ass. Now, as Harry sat in a bull’s-eye of light at the dining room table, Morris was stricken by speech.
“If there’s like a shot you get on the floor real quick,” said Morris.
He added a nervous “Hee hee.”
“You have a problem with arresting Emery?”
“The idea don’t bother me at all. It’s the practical doing it that could be tricky. You ever notice how quiet that man can be. How you just look up and he’s there.”
“Well, to get here he’d have to travel through the woods at night.
What are the chances of catching him out there?”
Morris snorted. “He’s a fucking Indian.”
“His mother’s got Indian blood, but he looks like he lives pretty white.”
“You take your normal soul brother like you got down in the city.
Man’s bound to have some white blood in him but nobody’d call him part white now would they. Uh-uh. Larry’s a fucking Indian and for all I know he can turn into a fucking owl and fly through the woods at night.” Morris grinned philosophically. “Don’t discount anything out of hand I always say.”
HUNTER’S MOON / 325
“Okay, he’s Indian.”
“Indians are difficult people. You know, extreme. Like that Red Feather Veteran’s bunch Larry was in for a while. Need three of them Purple Hearts to join. Man, that’s extreme. Yeah, he was over there in Vietnam. Showed me this picture once from Life magazine. All these empty boots lined up after this battle. Said he was in that picture, in the back, but you couldn’t see him. That’s Larry, hee hee.”
“Morris, shut the fuck up please.”
Dawn dripped down the windows the color of sweat and Morris’s radio crackled and he spoke to the guys outside. Then he leaned over and spit tobacco juice into a copper antique wastebasket that was embossed with a Maston Mining logo. “It’s quiet,” he said.
“Three more of the boys showed up. State Patrol’s out at Cox’s trailer. Bunch of guys from Lake County are at Larry’s house. And cops on the roads thick as fleas. Be a big search come daylight.”
Harry made coffee for the cops who now sat warming themselves in their trucks in the drive. Then he called the hotel in Duluth. At first the clerk wouldn’t ring Bud’s room because of the early hour.
“This is a police emergency,” Harry said in his best storm trooper voice.
“Huh? What?” Bud’s groggy voice.
Finally. “Hey, fucker, Wake up! Where you been?”
“Harry?”
“Man, you won’t believe all the shit—”
“Where’ve you been?” Bud demanded.
“Tip Kidwell. Duluth. Larry Emery hiding in the woods. That’s where I been.”
“What?”
“Emery’s flipped out. He tried to take my head off. We got a game of tag. Cops with riot guns. The sheriff is fucking it.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“They got an all poi
nts for him. Armed and dangerous, just 326 / CHUCK LOGAN
like in the movies. Bud, he’s got Chris’s rifle down in his basement and this target of you on the wall and all these pictures—”
“Pictures?”
“Yeah, this collage. You and Nixon. A million fucking pictures.
There’s other stuff. I found this story Chris wrote. That’s really weird. It ties in with what Emery’s got in his basement but damned if I can figure how…”
“Story?”
“Karson has had Emery pegged from day one, man.”
“Harry, slow down. It’s all skewed.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Just stay away, far away, until we drop a net over this guy.”
“Bullshit. I’m getting dressed. Give me an hour and a half. I’m getting you out of there. You at my place?”
“Christ—don’t come near here.”
“Goddamnit!” Bud shouted. “I live there! I’m going to settle this damn thing with Jesse once and for all.”
“I doubt the court is doing any normal business today. Mike Hakala has a gang of coppers watching Jesse out at Cox’s place.
And he’s bringing Becky in. With Emery flipped out there’s bound to be a grand jury into Chris now. My bet is Jesse’ll come down in price. Call Hakala at the police station. Get an escort. Stay on the main roads. This guy’s got it in for you. He’s doing the Kidwell thing all over again.”
“Call you back.” Bud hung up.
Harry paced, peering out the windows. The phone rang ten minutes later.
“Jesus Christ. What’s happening up there?” said Bud soberly.
“Hakala said he was using you as bait.”
“Now you believe me?”
“It’s six-thirty. I’ll meet you at the Timber Cruiser at ten. Calm down. Hakala said not to overreact. It’s all over cops. Some cooperative thing with other jurisdictions. Emery’s not downtown, for Chrissake. And what did you mean a story?”
“I’ll print out a copy. It’s something else.”
“Whatever.”
HUNTER’S MOON / 327
53
Ten-fifteen. Bud was late. Harry lit another cigarette and motioned to the waitress for a refill on coffee. The Cruiser was jammed with hunters and cops from all over coffeeing up before they hit the woods. Faithful Morris had followed him back down the hill and sat at the counter contemplating a mountain of blueberry pancakes. Four husky guys in black fatigues and snappy little black SWAT caps occupied one table with the air of trophy hunters out for exotic game. The lady reporter from Duluth, Sherry what’s her name, sat with them.
Ginny Hakala walked through the crowd in a mountain parka, wool pants, and beaded mukluks. She sat down. “Lookit all these guys raffling wolf tickets. What a fucking mess.”
“Where’s Jerry?”
“Uncle Mike’s got him tailing Mitch, looking for Becky.”
She lit one of Harry’s cigarettes. “Between you and me, this isn’t like Larry Emery. Uh-uh. Not one bit. I don’t care what he’s got in his basement.” She blew a plume of smoke. “You all right?”
Harry, going on sixty hours without sleep, laughed.
“I’m worried about Jay,” she said frankly.
“The guy can take care of himself. He convinced me. And there’s a million cops.”
“That’s exactly what worries me. Doesn’t all this prove that nobody can take care of themselves?”
A deputy stood up at the counter and motioned for her. She rose to her feet. “I gotta go guide in a search party.”
Two cigarettes and a cup of coffee later, Bud slowly hoisted himself out of a gray rental Isuzu Trooper. A green Honda Prelude pulled in next to him—Linda Margoles.
Deferential silence accompanied the blast of icy air as Bud pushed through the door. Cold-eyed sober and bullet-headed in a gray three-piece pinstripe suit, he filled the cafe—ponderous as an icon of power visiting from another era. An expensive silk tie was knotted at his throat and he’d already sweated a
328 / CHUCK LOGAN
ring through the collar of his shirt. His top sheet of fat had melted off.
“What the hell’s she doing here?” Harry demanded when Bud and Linda came through the crowded restaurant.
“I’m working,” said Linda, who was crisp in a tailored charcoal suit with razor creases and a fluffy silk bodice layered between her lapels. Behind a pragmatic lawyer’s smile, her face was compact with resolve.
“She’s like my lawyer. We’d hoped to file papers in court,” said Bud. He squeezed Harry’s arm in a steel grip. “Now what happened to your face?”
“Sheriff Emery and I went half a round.”
They sat down and Harry smelled him. Gray-faced, rank with nervous sweat. Linda, right next to him, pretended not to notice.
His eyes were flat as two blue buttons. Linda’s smile was so tight it threatened to crack her face.
Bud lit a Camel straight and pushed the pack across the table. His hands were clean but the fingernails were untrimmed, grimy ribbons.
Another dose of ice water air announced Mike Hakala. He had a picture ID clipped to his parka and carried a growling police radio.
“No court today, Bud,” he said.
“What’s your situation, Mike?”
“You can see we’re knee-deep in cops. We have teams assigned to Jesse and Cox and Don Karson, and we’ll have people on you and Harry. And I’m working on getting Becky into protective custody.”
“How dirty is he?”
“Technically, all I got on him is jumping Harry. But I think I have probable cause to hold him as an accessory in the attempt on your life. Once we nail him, we’ll have a showdown investigation like this county’s never seen and the chips are going to fall where they fucking fall.”
“Do you think Jesse was involved with him?” Bud asked.
“We’re sure as hell going to ask her some questions.”
“Mike, I think I should get Harry out of here, he’s starting to look frayed around the edges.”
HUNTER’S MOON / 329
Hakala shrugged. “Fine, but as long as you’re in my county, you’ll travel under police escort until this emergency is over. Now, I’ve got to get these people moving.” He nodded and went to the SWAT
team table.
Bud turned to Harry. “Now what’s this stuff you’ve got?”
Harry took the page from the Duluth paper and Chris’s story from the manila envelope and spread them on the table. He unfolded the page and thumbed his finger on the red-circled photograph.
“For starters, you left some stuff out,” Harry said, reaching for a Camel. The .45 in his waistband clunked against the table.
Alert to the sound, Bud came across the table and pushed Harry’s parka back from his belt. “Detroit Harry’s got a gun,” Bud announced in a weary voice.
“Oh, Harry,” said Linda.
Harry glanced from Bud’s face to Linda’s and back again. He tried to find a way into Bud’s fixed eyes.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Harry insisted, stabbing his finger at the page. “They tried it again. Except this time it’s a bigger target.”
Bud smiled tightly. “It’s over. She gets a check. It all goes away.
Unless she’s implicated.”
Incensed, Harry banged his fist on the table. “You’re not going to pay her a million bucks!”
Heads turned. Hakala paused going out the door with the SWAT
guys, shook his head, moved on. Bud grimaced and drew his chin into his shoulders and Linda leaned forward, warning Harry with her eyes. “He can pay her anything he wants. Calm down. You’re making a scene.”
Conversation ceased. A waitress hovered uncomfortably. Her eyes were riveted on the butt of the .45 sticking out of Harry’s belt.
“Coffee,” said Bud in a hollow voice. The waitress retreated.
“Where’d you get this?” Bud brandished the newsprint.
“Don Karson stuck it on the door of the lodge. He
’s seen All the President’s Men one too many times.”
330 / CHUCK LOGAN
“Then I’ll go talk to him,” said Bud. His hand ruffled the printed sheets. “And this?”
“Something Chris wrote.”
Bud picked it up and began to read. “Jesus, this is sick,” he said and set it aside.
“Becky’s been hiding in the woods because she knows the whole deal. Once they get her to talk…”
Bud pondered it with dreamy eyes, going back in time. He patted Harry’s arm. “You always just have to go at things, don’t you?”
Nervously, the waitress leaned across the table, putting down the coffee cups. Seeing that the menus were stacked unopened, she said diplomatically, “I’ll be back in a little while.”
Bud’s face tightened and he pursed his lips. “See how he is?” he said to Linda. “He’s obsessed and he’s armed.” Turning to Harry, Bud gathered himself and said forcefully, “You have to stop all this, right now!”
His voice was loud enough to cause the restaurant patter to miss a beat and faces turned again. Bud’s rich baritone erupted from the ashes of his life, commanding: “You get in trouble when you’re excited like this, Harry. You want to break things and kill things like a dangerous little boy.”
“What is this?”
“He told me why you left Detroit,” said Linda gravely.
Harry clicked his teeth and fatigue took his last reserves away in a slow, sad brass strut like a New Orleans funeral.
It was funny how your past was never far away. It crouched just out of eyesight, ready to bite you in the heels. Sitting there, the years rolled away, calling forth images of that night: Cherry’s—a bar where he’d hung out after the afternoon shift at Eldon Axle. Different after so many years away. The town had changed. Everybody pulled a gun. Harry had one, too. Confused shots and then…one very dead black who’d picked the wrong night to be macho. He’d hopped a Greyhound for St. Paul the next day. Thanksgiving. The Lions were playing the Minnesota Vikings, an away game in a foot of snow.
HUNTER’S MOON / 331
“You fucker,” said Harry. “What are you trying to pull?” His eyes jumped to Linda’s face. The intricate codas and grapples of the legal system revolved in her cool brown eyes. “You told… her?”