by Pete Hautman
“I made it,” she said.
“I know,” said Crow. “I watched you do it.”
Mary’s brow wrinkled. “I mean the mug.”
“Oh!” He held up the mug and examined it: beautifully turned, with thin walls, a large, graceful handle, and a translucent glaze. “Nice. I heard you’d become a potter. Melinda mentioned it. I had dinner with Melinda a few nights ago, you know.”
Mary shifted her eyes to the floor. “I know.”
“Have you talked to her lately?”
Mary opened the cabinet under the sink, took a pink sponge from the wire rack on the inside of the door, moistened it, and wiped at an invisible spot on the tile floor. She nodded.
Crow said, “She’s still using.”
Mary attacked another spot. “She’s having a hard time, Joe. She’s out of balance.” She rinsed the sponge, squeezed it dry, and replaced it in its rack.
“So am I.”
“She told me you walked out on her in the middle of the night.”
“Walked out on her? She was sitting at her kitchen table doing lines. What was I supposed to do, chop her coke for her?”
Mary touched her lips to the dark surface of her coffee. “So you went fishing.”
“Are you trying to tell me something? What else did she say?”
Mary shook her head. “She said after you left, a policeman woke her up, pounding on her door, looking for you. Are you in some kind of trouble again, Joe? She said he was very threatening, looking for you. Can you imagine what that must have been like for her? The middle of the night? Are you in trouble again?”
“No more than usual. What policeman?”
“She said it was that man you used to work for.”
“Johnson?” Crow sensed a wave of concern and protectiveness rolling in. He flattened it with a series of hard thoughts. She’d probably been sitting with her coke and her mirror, doing more lines. Probably scared the hell out of her. Served her right He could see her sitting at the kitchen table, pale eyes challenging him. Challenging him to what? He made the image black and white, reduced it to wallet size.
“She’d better clean up her act,” he said.
Mary did not reply.
Crow’s fingers were wrapped around the coffee cup, squeezing it. There was something here he didn’t understand. She was his sister; she was Melinda’s closest friend. He wanted to grab her, shake her, make her tell him what he had to do. Or tell him there was nothing he could do. Be straight with him for once. Inside this New Age crystal-head Stepford wife was his real sister, the old Mary Crow. He hadn’t seen any sign of her in half a decade, but she was in there someplace.
He had to get off the subject of Melinda. Crow forced his mind to consider other issues. He’d been out of touch for three days. Had George Murphy gotten his kid back? Why was Orlan Johnson banging on Melinda’s door? And where the hell was that doctor?
“I was just over at Dr. Bellweather’s house,” he said.
Mary’s shoulders dropped back to their normal position, making him realize that she had been at least as tense as he. Her hands fluttered in a sudden release of energy. She sat down across the table from him.
“Oh?”
“There’s a notice from the IRS on his front door. His property has been seized.”
She tipped her head to the side, smiling, performing a slight brow crinkle. “I didn’t know that,” she said. She dropped her hands to her thighs.
“Has Dave said anything?”
She shook her head. “I was supposed to see him tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be at his clinic.”
“You were supposed to see Bellweather?”
“A follow-up appointment. He did a procedure on me a few weeks ago.” She stood up and stepped back from the table, smoothed her slacks over her hips, unleashed a catalog smile. “Didn’t you notice? I’ve lost ten pounds!”
The snowmobile bounced and ground its way through the storm, following a faint trail through the tangle of gray trees, fallen logs, windfalls, and brush. The gray sky descended and grew darker, spilling large clumps of snowflakes. Anderson buried his head behind George Murphy’s wide back and waited out the ride, which turned out to be mercifully short. Less than five minutes from the lodge, the snowmobile stopped and Murphy shut down the engine.
“We’d best walk in from here,” he said.
Anderson looked up. The snow was coming down harder. How were they supposed to find an elk in this kind of weather, let alone shoot one?
“Maybe we should try this tomorrow,” Anderson said.
Murphy laughed. “Take my word for it, Steve, this is perfect weather for elk. I bet we can walk right up on the old bastard. Grab your gun and let’s go!”
Anderson slung his Weatherby over his shoulder and trudged after Murphy, breaking through the crust, sinking knee high in the snow. He was thinking, Twenty thousand dollars? He followed Murphy’s dark shape up the side of a tree-covered slope. When they reached the top, Murphy signaled a halt. The far side of the slope fell away quickly into a coulee, a narrow valley with sides so steep that areas of rock and naked earth showed through where the snow refused to settle.
Murphy pitched his voice low and said, “I think we got lucky, Steve. I think I see something.” He pointed across the coulee toward the opposite slope. Anderson squinted into the snow. At first, all he could see was a mass of twisted, muted gray shapes. How far were they from the other side of the coulee? He guessed about fifty yards.
“There, on the far ridge, under that old oak.”
Anderson looked harder and made out a shape that looked somewhat elk-like beneath the spreading limbs of a tree. He felt his heart start to pulse, felt the hairs moving on the back of his neck, felt his hands begin to shake.
“You see him now?” Murphy whispered.
Anderson nodded.
“You better take ’m. Might not get another shot like this one.”
“You sure that’s the one? I can hardly see him.”
“That’s him, all right.”
Anderson lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He was shaking with buck fever, overloaded with primal hormones, breathing too quickly. He heard Murphy say, as if from miles away, “Take it easy, Steve. Take your time now. Squeeze it off, nice and easy. He’s all yours. …”
He didn’t even feel the kick of the rifle. The sound of the shot instantly melted into the thick snow. Nothing happened for a few silent seconds, then the elk shape collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been suddenly severed.
XVII
After your successful hunt, relax in the spacious, rustic, friendly, down home atmosphere of Talking Lake Lodge, where you can peruse our collection of world class trophies, share your experiences with other hunters, and enjoy complimentary cocktails or beer. At Talking Lake, we offer a total hunting experience.
—TALKING LAKE RANCH BROCHURE
“I’M SORRY, MR. CROW. Mr. Getter’s busy at the moment.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“I don’t know. Would you like to wait?”
“No. Tell him I’m here.”
Andrea, David Getter’s receptionist/secretary/apologist, looked at her nails, conveying the message that the scarlet growths on the tips of her fingers were of far greater interest than the disreputable-looking, fishy-smelling Joe Crow. Andrea had been with Getter for over five years, long enough to strip her of any empathic inclinations. During those years she had insulated herself with an ever thicker layer of body fat, makeup, and attitude. She looked as though she had spent her entire life sitting behind that desk, growing thick, nylon-clad roots. Crow found it impossible to imagine her in any other setting. “He asked not to be disturbed.”
“I don’t care.” Crow hoisted a hip onto the edge of Andrea’s desk and picked up her paperweight, a lump of fake crystal with a rosebud embedded in its center. “Please don’t sit on my desk,” she said, leaning back. Her voice had a grating, nasal edge to it, a childhood whine evolved into something resembling a foghorn.
Crow lifted the phone receiver and handed it to her. “Call him.”
Andrea sighed and took the phone with a sour expression, punched two buttons, then said, “Mr. Getter? Mr. Crow is here to see you.”
She held the phone for a moment, then replaced it in its cradle.
“He’s not in,” she said.
“Oh, really? When did he leave?”
“I do not know. I believe he had an appointment.”
Crow heard a door close.
“I think I’ll just take a look in his office.” Crow walked past Andrea’s desk.
“You can’t go in there,” she honked. But she didn’t move from her station.
Getter’s office was empty. A suit jacket was draped over the back of his leather chair. Crow sat behind the desk. The chair molded itself to his body like a soft leather glove. It was still warm. Crow flipped through the Rolodex. All the cards were neatly typed.
Bellweather, Dr. Nelson. There was only one address—Bellweather’s house—and two phone numbers—his home and office. Nothing Crow didn’t have already.
There was no card for Nate Bellweather.
Flipping open Getter’s desk calendar, he read through the day’s entries. Getter’s handwriting was excruciatingly neat. 9:30—haircut. 11:00—CPA. 4:30—Sinnamon. It looked like an easy day.
Crow looked at the marble desk clock: 2:30 P.M. If Getter had stepped out to keep an appointment, it hadn’t been important enough to note on his calendar. Not as important as a haircut, for instance. Or as important as Sinnamon, whoever or whatever that was.
He felt the pockets of the suit jacket that Getter had left hanging on his chair, extracted Getter’s wallet—some exotic hide that Crow didn’t recognize—and flipped through its contents. Eighty dollars in cash, an assortment of credit cards, business cards, and miscellaneous receipts. Crow was disappointed. He’d been hoping for something sordid and incriminating. The two side pockets had been left sewn shut to keep them from bagging out, as had the front breast pocket. The watch pocket, however, contained a business card from Myoka’s Health Club.
“Ah,” said Crow. He turned the card and read the girlish script on the back: Sinnamon. A little heart dotted the i. Crow smiled.
The fact that Getter had left without his coat or wallet indicated that he could not have gone far. There was a second door leading out of his office. Crow opened it and discovered a copier, several file cabinets, and another door, which led out into the hallway. It made sense that Getter would have two bolt-holes. Skunks employed a similar strategy. Crow walked down the hall and entered the men’s room. He looked under the doors of the three stalls and discovered a pair of thin-soled, tasseled Italian loafers. The style was right. He entered the next stall, stood on the toilet, and looked over the divider at the thinning crown of David Getter’s head.
The Wall Street Journal lay across his lap, covered by an open copy of a skin magazine, two bored-looking, big-chested blondes engaging in a bout of amateur gynecology.
“You forgot something,” Crow said.
Getter twitched violently and ducked. He twisted his head to the side and looked up at Crow, scowling.
“What the hell, Joe?”
“You’re supposed to take your pants down, Dave. You forgot that part.”
Getter stood up, folded the paper around the magazine, tucked it under his arm, and exited the stall.
“What do you want, Joe?”
“Where’s Bellweather?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t believe you. I thought you knew everything.”
Getter turned on the faucet, soaped his hands, and rinsed them off. When he pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, the newspaper and its contents fell to the floor. Hustler. He didn’t pick them up.
“Where is he?” Crow said.
“I told you, I don’t know.” Getter’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. If Crow didn’t know him, he might have believed it.
“What’s his status with the IRS?”
Getter smiled. “He’s a client, Joe. I’m not free to discuss it.”
“There’s a notice pinned to his door,” Crow said. “Something about his property being seized. The man owes me money, Dave. I’d like to see it.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that, Joe.” Getter stood with his back to the sink, gripping it with both hands, slouching slightly in an effort to appear relaxed. He smiled, his lips pressed tight together.
Crow stared at the lawyer and thought about how it would feel to hurt him. He could feel his muscles loosening, his internal controls dissolving. To his own surprise, he realized that he was dangerously close to punching out his brother-in-law. He took a step back and looked away. As soon as his eyes left Getter’s face, he felt better.
Getter bent over and picked up his Journal/Hustler taco. He folded his arms over the newspaper and tipped his head back a few degrees.
Crow imagined his fist striking the point of Getter’s chin.
It would feel really, really good.
He would probably break his hand.
He turned woodenly and walked out of the rest room.
So far, Dave Getter, attorney-at-law, was having an uncomfortable afternoon. The club sandwich he’d eaten for lunch was clawing at his duodenum, and the confrontation he’d had with Mary’s brother—the little prick jumping him in the can—had him all tensed up. On the other hand, he had won the encounter. Hadn’t given the little prick a thing. Who did he think he was, demanding information that was none of his business? Getter derived a twist of pleasure from the power he’d wielded so effectively. Maybe if the little shit had asked nice, he would have told him something.
And then first thing he gets back to his desk, Andrea puts through a call from Bellweather, the other little prick in his life.
“Your bodyguard was just here,” Getter said.
“Who? Crow? What did he want?”
“I think he wants his paycheck.”
“Yeah, right. Did I tell you what he did? He went out to the ranch and talked to George. Came back and gave me a bunch of shit. You didn’t tell him where I was, did you?”
“Are you still at Nate’s?”
“For the moment.”
“I didn’t tell him anything. Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet, but we’re out of here. David, how would you like to make some money?”
“Does this mean you’re going to take care of your bill?”
“Of course I am. But I’m talking about something else. Something quick.”
“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the Murphy kid, does it?”
“It might.”
“I thought I told you to drop him off on a street corner someplace. Don’t you have enough troubles?”
“Look, do you want to hear it or not? All I need is for you to make a few phone calls for me.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
After hanging up the phone, Getter stared down at his desk blotter and tried to convince himself that this scheme of Bellweather’s was worth the risk. He turned on his PC, logged onto his quotation service, and reviewed his diminished stock portfolio. Things had not improved in the past few hours. Alsace Technologies was still in the toilet, as was Eastwest Computer. Both stocks had been strongly recommended by Steve Anderson, Bellweather’s ex-stockbroker. That had been back when Anderson was making tons of money for the doctor. After listening to Anderson’s pitch, Getter had plunged all the cash he could get his hands on into the market. Fortunately, he reminded himself, he had backed away from investing in BioStellar GameTech. Unlike his client the doctor, he was only half broke.
Bellweather’s idea—Getter refused to think of it as kidnapping or extortion—had come along at just the right time. If it worked. His role in the process would be that of mediator rather than participant. It wasn’t as if he had planned it. Not like he had grabbed the
kid himself. In fact, the kid had run away on his own. Getter’s ethical position was that his client was in trouble and it was his job to help him out. Negotiate a settlement between the doctor and the Murphys. That was what lawyers did, wasn’t it?
Nevertheless, he was not eager to talk to George Murphy. It would put him in a precarious legal position, to say the least. He would have to be careful. Get the message across to Murphy without coming right out and saying it. Take on the role of a disinterested third party. If the money didn’t look so good, he’d flat out refuse to have any part of it. Getter made himself relax, dreaming about the money for a few minutes, spending it in his mind. Then he picked up the phone.
Anderson tossed back his fourth Scotch and soda and grinned. “By God,” he said, “I did it!”
“You sure did,” said George Murphy.
“I took the son-of-a-bitch!”
“With one shot,” said Murphy. “An elk that size, that’s not easy. Must’ve been a heart shot, the way he dropped.”
“Christ, I don’t even remember aiming. I was shaking in my pants.”
“You looked pretty cool to me,” Murphy said. This was not his favorite thing. But it was business. Sitting around watching one of his clients get drunk, reliving the hunt, shooting the damned thing over and over again, like working the remote on a VCR. You had to let them do it, have a few drinks, get the whole experience burned into their brains. It was always the same. He wished Anderson would hurry up and wind down.
“I can’t wait to hang that sucker up. It’s going right over the fireplace, no matter what Patty says.”
George doubted that, but he said nothing. He was having trouble staying with Anderson’s jubilant mood. Now that he’d taken care of the elk problem, Shawn’s disappearance hung on him. Unpleasant imaginings buzzed gnatlike in his mind. He would brush them away, but they would gather strength and return. Flashes of Shawn and Bellweather. He was anxious to hear from Ricky, who had gone to pay Nate Bellweather a visit. With any luck, he would find both Bellweathers, and Shawn.
“You think it’ll go over four hundred points?”
“I guaranteed it, didn’t I?” In fact, he had measured Number One’s antlers the day they’d found him dead in the north pasture. The rack had scored out at four hundred eighteen points. “Fact, I betcha it’ll go over four fifteen.”