November Hunt

by Jess Lourey

  As I stood, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I squealed and turned. Lyle stood there in his dark blue jumper, his eyes bloodshot, smiling a crooked smile.

  “You scared me!”

  He shrugged.

  “Care to turn the music down?” I yelled.

  He shrugged again, but pointed toward the back of the shop. I found the stereo console and turned the music to low. My ear drums throbbed. “That’ll make you go deaf.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be my mother?” he asked.

  “You’re high.”

  “You’re low.” He smiled again, but it had a dark underline. “Something go wrong with your car?”

  “I’m here to talk to you about what you said about Tom. You said you’d done time for him, and then he did time for you. Were you referring to the rape charges?”

  He turned abruptly and strode toward a tool bench, where he began noisily pawing through the wrenches. “I never mentioned a rape,” he said over the noise

  “No, you didn’t. I found it in the records of the Battle Lake newspaper.”

  He came up with a crescent wrench. “Sure going to a lot of trouble for a friend of the family.”

  It was my turn to shrug.

  He sewed his lips, then thought better of it. “If you read it in the paper, then you know all of it. I was arrested for rape. Sentenced to fifteen years, did ten.”

  “That’s all there is to it?”

  “I suppose, if you look at my record.”

  “Records don’t always tell the truth. What would a fly on the wall have witnessed that night?”

  He chuckled. The sound made the back of my neck cold. “A fly wouldn’t’a wanted to be there, birdie. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told the police because it doesn’t make any difference anymore, does it? I was passing through Battle Lake a long time ago, doing carpentry work here and there. I got a gig helping out a bigshot business owner upgrading his summer place. That was my first mistake. His son was a member of this lily-white, country boy gang that called themselves the Four Musketeers. They knew I had weed and invited me to a barn party. I went, and that was my second mistake.”

  He polished the wrench as he spoke, his voice hard. When the metal of it caught light, it shone like a diamond. “It was the four boys there, the Musketeers, and me. We got high. A girl showed up, and we started drinking. We drank too much. The barn was full of hay, and it was warm, and I was tired, so I fell asleep. I woke up to that pretty little thing crying, hay all in her hair and stuck in her yellow party dress, and I knew what I was up against. The Musketeers had all left, and the police were on their way. Who called them, your guess is as good as mine. I never touched that girl, I never did, but she was a local and protected her own. I was hung out to dry.”

  “Tom Kicker was one of the Four Musketeers?”

  Lyle leaned under the hood of a two-door sedan and continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “I did my time, and when I got out, I opened up this here garage and didn’t much look back. Though, if you’re wondering, I believe Tom’s patronage spoke for itself, in terms of his guilt. That man never could handle guilt well.”

  I digested that information. “Who were the other three?”

  Outside a car door slammed. Lyle released the hood on the car he was working on and turned on me. “I’ve talked enough.”

  “I could find out who they were. I can go back to the newspaper archives.”

  He laughed, a sound as cold as a December whistle. “You won’t find out who they were. Not in the newspaper, anyhow. Every town protects its privileged sons.”

  He was moving uncomfortably close to me, the glittering wrench still in his hand.

  “Why’d you come back here after you got out?”

  “I called in favors to get this business going,” he said darkly. “And I might have an ironic streak. If I don’t get to forget that night, neither does anyone else.”

  We both heard the door in the office open. “Hello?”

  The voice was male, and it gave Lyle a jolt. He strode the last three feet to me and gave me a push. “You should leave through this side door.”

  His unease was contagious. “Why?”

  Instead of answering, he pushed me toward the door. I craned my neck but at this angle couldn’t see who entered. Outside, I jogged back to the front of the business, where a black Jeep was parked next to my Toyota. I walked to the office entrance just in time to see the door to the garage slammed shut. I returned to the Jeep and peeked in the windows. A couple jazz CDs were spread out on the passenger seat. The inside was otherwise clean. I slid into my Toyota and drove to Bonnie & Clyde’s to ask Carla if she was the girl in the yellow dress.

  Twenty-five

  The ugliness of what I was dealing with was undeniable. In the 1960s, a girl had been raped. According to Lyle, the Four Musketeers were responsible for the attack, and Tom had been one of those Musketeers. They had framed Lyle. That corroborated Julius’ suggestion that a scandal in Tom’s past had threatened to take down more than one “good” boy. Either Julius was mistaken in his assessment of the men or I was misjudging Lyle as a rough but basically decent person. He truly believed he’d been done wrong. It might not have happened exactly like he remembered, but his conviction convinced me that the newspaper didn’t have it right, either.

  Fast forward to today. Tom is murdered at the hands of his friend Clive, who is currently dating a woman who may have been the rape victim. Had Carla let slip the story of her past, and Clive avenged her? That seemed far-fetched, but I didn’t have anything else to go on until I figured out if Carla was the rape victim, and who the other three Musketeers were.

  It was not yet 8:00 p.m., and Bonnie & Clyde’s was sparsely populated. Ruby was behind the counter, smoking and watching the tiny color television. Carla was dispensing golden mugs of beer to a group of four drinking near one of the two pool tables. They were young, early twenties tops, and were likely here for the two-band lineup. Johnny was nowhere in sight. I sidled to the bar.

  “Hi, Ruby.”

  She didn’t look away from the TV. The bar was hers. She’d inherited it from her late husband, and she was a character. She wore jeans with 1970s patches and had the appearance and mien of Flo from Mel’s Diner. “You still not drinking?” she asked me.

  “I drink water.”

  “Not in Clitherall you don’t.” She was right. There was a sign on the bathroom taps informing clients that the water was not potable, and the bar purchased their ice from Koep’s gas station up the road. I’d heard it had to do with all the pesticides from the potato farms circling the town.

  “True enough. Could I have a Diet Coke?”

  She hung the cigarette from the corner of her mouth, grabbed a glass and a scoop of ice, and filled it. I slid her two dollars and looked away. She had this neat trick where she’d take your money and leave you change without you noticing. I preferred not to watch. I didn’t want to discover her secret. I turned back, and the money was still there.

  “This one’s on me. You’re covering the bands tonight?”

  I thought about it. “I could try. It’s up to Ron if he wants to run the story. Who’s the opening band?”

  “Iron Steel,” said a hot voice in my ear.

  I grimaced and pulled away. “Hi, Brad. I didn’t see you here.” Brad had been the boyfriend I’d left behind in Minneapolis, the one who looked like a blonde Jim Morrison, conversed like a kindergartner, and screwed like a mime. Unfortunately, the same vortex that had relocated me to Battle Lake had also caught him in its trap. We crossed each other’s paths on occasion, but otherwise, I avoided him. I’d made peace with his cheating ways, but there’s something about running into an ex that reminds you of every bad decision you’ve ever made.

  He ran his fingers through his feathered hair. “I was tuning my bass. You here to check out my new band?”

  “What happened to Not with My Horse?”

  “We broke up. Creative differences.”

&
nbsp; “Uh hunh. Did they get tired of the techno polka fusion?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He pitched his voice so he sounded like a big-hair ’80s radio dee jay. “I am now Iron Steel. Twice the metal.”

  “Where’d you find the new band?”

  He looked around at his feet, the ceiling, the wall. He’d never been a good liar. Even when he’d cheated on me. “You know. Around.”

  “It’s the same band, isn’t it? Just a different name.”

  He appeared chagrined, then must have decided the expression was too much work. “Yeah. But we’ve reinvented ourselves. Totally different.”

  “Can’t wait. If you’ll excuse me.” Carla was back at the bar and had lit a cigarette. I peeled myself away from Brad and sat next to her, and he returned to the stage to finish setting up his instrument. “Hi.”

  She glanced at me, looking bored. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. She’d made time for eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, but they only served to accent her washed-out color. In general, she looked like life had rode her hard and put her away wet. “You know the band?”

  “No,” I lied. “Remember me? I was at the library the other night. When Clive came in and wrote the check.”

  “I remember you.” She took a deep drag off her cigarette.

  “I cashed Clive’s check. It didn’t bounce.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Clive is a man of surprises.”

  “How long have you two been dating?”

  “A couple months, maybe. It’s not serious.”

  In the background, Iron Steel began to tune up. It sounded like scissors being sharpened. “The dating pool is pretty shallow here. But you probably know that better than me. You’re from Battle Lake, right?”

  “I lived here for awhile, went away for awhile, been back for a while.” She looked around me at a group of twenty-something women who had just entered the bar, laughing loudly and made up for a night of fun.

  “Yeah, I’ve only been in Battle Lake since last spring. I’m house-sitting for a friend. I’m actually neighbors with Clive.”

  “Excuse me.” She stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. As she walked off to take drink orders from the new arrivals, I noticed she was wearing elastic-waisted blue jeans, their waistband almost invisible under a baggy t-shirt. Despite the aura of exhaustion she emanated, I could tell she had a naturally trim figure under her shabby clothes. Maybe they were all she could afford. Her newest customers had seated themselves in the only large table in the room, off to the immediate right of the stage. I predicted they’d be asking for sweet and pretty drinks and settling for Malibu rum and diet colas.

  Once she served them, Carla returned to her pack of cigarettes.

  “Gonna be a busy night,” I offered.

  “Looks like.”

  “Do you have any kids?”

  Her eyes raced to my face and seemed to look at me full on for the first time. The moment was tense, and then she laughed. “None worth keeping.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t want to talk about it. Why are you asking so many questions?”

  “Making small talk.” I nodded toward the stage, where Iron Steel was preparing to start. “I have a friend coming on after these guys, so I’ve got time to kill.”

  She seemed to take this at face value. “You got any kids?”

  “Nope.” I swiveled on my stool to knock on bar wood. “Can I ask you something? Out of curiosity?”

  She tapped a long ash off her cigarette. “You want to know where Clive got the money, right? I don’t blame you. I would too. Anyhow, it’s no secret. He got it from the Fergus attorney. The same one who was at the library event.”

  I mentally ran through the guest list. I didn’t know over half the people who were at the gathering, or what they did for a living. “What’s the attorney’s name?”

  “You’d have to ask Clive.” Another large group pushed through the door, this one co-ed, and Carla smashed out her second but certainly not her last half-smoked cigarette of the night.

  I stayed long enough to hear Iron Steel’s entire set, and I had to reluctantly admit that they weren’t half bad. They were closer to 40 percent crap, which was an evolution for Brad. I wasn’t staying to hear him, though. I was here for Johnny. He’d suffered through my gastrointestinal distress and still requested that I come and see him play tonight. I’d been running all day, starting with taking Peggy to church this morning—shoot, I’d only had enough time over lunch to run home and let the animals out and grab a sandwich. I knew I looked faded and stressed, but he’d seen me worse.

  That’s what I told myself until I saw him stride through the rear door of the bar, equipment in hand, oblivious to the appreciative stares he drew from the female crowd. Most of them were here to see Johnny, and I couldn’t blame them. His thick hair curled around his ears, and the rosy cold on his cheeks turned his eyes so blue they glowed. It was his hands that made me weak in the knees, though, those strong-fingered, lean, lovemaking hands. I quickly swiveled in my seat and dug frantically in my purse for lipgloss. I had the wand to my lips and was pinching my cheeks to add color when I felt his hand on my shoulder. He slid his other hand on my cheek, chilled from the outdoors, and leaned in to whisper over the clamor of Iron Steel.

  “You made it.” His warm breath seemed to travel over my entire body.

  I nodded, but he was too close to my ear to see it. He kissed the spot directly below my earlobe, and I quivered. He pulled back with a smile, nodded toward his equipment, and went off to set up. I was aware that I was now being stared at, an impotent lipgloss wand in my hands. I shoved it back into the container and ordered a refill on my beverage.

  By the time his band was on stage, Bonnie & Clyde’s was packed. I held my seat at the bar and admired from a distance as Johnny sang everything from smoky love songs to pulsing rock. On break, he took me by the hand and led me to the basement, smiling at the people who wanted to talk to him but not stopping until he had me at the bottom of the stairs, where he closed the door, pushed me gently against it, and kissed me like he meant it. I was able to stand seven full minutes of passionate petting before my hand went to his zipper. He pulled it away and moved it to his hard chest.

  “Remember the rules,” he whispered huskily.

  “I can’t even remember my own name.”

  He chuckled, a throaty sound that never failed to make me smile. He played his finger across my lips. “I have to go back upstairs. You’re probably not going to stay through the whole second set, are you?”

  I heard the hope in his voice, but he was a realist. He knew once I cooled off, I’d sense the danger of going home with him and flee. Still, I found myself wanting to share with him all that I was discovering, but it felt too intimate, and I didn’t want him worrying about me. I walked him back upstairs, emotions and questions swimming between us, and slipped out the front door a few songs into the set.

  Twenty-six

  Saturday morning, my first order of business was to call Lyle. I was going to find out who those other three Musketeers were. I had a hunch that one of them was Clive’s generous donor. If my fledgling theory that Clive was dating the victim was correct, it would make sense that one of the Musketeers would bribe him to keep him silent about the facts of their horrible crime. Unfortunately, no one answered the phone at Lyle’s. I got ready for work and drove to town to open up the library. The day was gray and heavy, a pillow of cold and dirt pressing down from the sky and making the air feel scarce. The temperature was hovering below zero, cold enough to sting, and I reconsidered the threat of the storm. It wouldn’t be the snow that would bury us. It’d be the heavy, frozen air, too thick with ice to breathe in.

  At work, I felt edgy, like I’d drank too much coffee and everyone was looking at me wrong. I tried Lyle again. No answer. I pulled out the Love-Your-Library guest list and crosschecked it for all the guests with a Fergus Falls prefix in their number. I came up
with 23 names. After searching for those names online, I found that three were attorneys: Frederick Milton, Jason Paul, and Margery Flax.

  I scratched out the work phone numbers of all three and gave each a call. None of them were in their office on a weekend, but their answering services were on duty. I was able to schedule an appointment with both Margery and Jason for Monday. Frederick’s first free spot was next Wednesday. I made an appointment for that day, though I intended to drop by earlier. My plan was to get someone to cover my Monday shift at the library and run to Fergus to see if Julius would be willing to tell me who the Musketeers were, and then to meet with the available attorneys to discover which one had given Clive money, and why.

  Lacking the focus to do anything productive, I researched the Internet for information on purity pledges. After last night’s passion and very specifically discovering that my traitorous hands were set on hunting Mr. Happy, I was in the market for a mental chastity belt, or at least one that didn’t leave a panty line.

  My first hit, a site called “Pledge Power,” creeped me right out. The website offered a two-part pledge, one for fathers to swear to fight the war for their daughter’s virginity, and one for daughters who promised their fathers they’d keep their virginity intact for their husbands. The bottom of the page had a link for “secondary” virgins, the used-cars-with-a-heart of the virgin world, those of us who might have slipped and fallen onto a penis or two but who were trying to right our ways. I clicked on that link and was told that there was hope for me to revirginate, which seemed to belie the website’s slogan that “once you slide, you can’t hide.”