“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” Daniel said.
It was then that Graham noticed something about his college roommate and longtime friend: Daniel seemed older than he had when he’d first arrived in Adelia. True, the stress of a campaign could wear on even the best men, but Daniel had been his campaign manager for only a month.
“What I’m trying to say,” Daniel went on, “is that you’ve already suffered all the setbacks you’re allowed. Your brother’s viral warrant announcement, your sister’s arrest, your mom’s arrest—any one of those could have been catastrophic. But together . . .” He leaned back in his chair, weariness evident on his face. “Frankly I’m amazed the press hasn’t crucified you.”
“How are the polls?” Graham asked.
“Polls don’t mean anything,” Daniel said.
Graham had to admit that it pleased him to see Daniel out of sorts, because he couldn’t recall a single instance during their shared history in which he’d witnessed it. Daniel’s calm presence, even amid the most trying circumstances, had always made Graham envious.
“Maybe the fact that the press is still in my corner after these setbacks, as you call them, means that we’re finally pulling some of that Kennedy luck.” Graham said it as a joke but knew he’d erred when he saw his father’s face cloud.
“Don’t be stupid, boy,” George said. He shifted his weight, the chair creaking beneath him. “You have a smart advisor here and he’s done a fine job keeping you clear of all this mess. If he’s got something to say, I suggest you listen.”
Graham had every intention of listening to Daniel, yet it irritated him to have his father berate him into doing so. Nevertheless, he held his tongue and turned his attention to his campaign manager.
“Alright, Daniel. You have the floor.”
Rather than answer, Daniel opened his briefcase and withdrew a few pieces of paper, which he threw on Graham’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Something your brother’s working on,” Daniel said. Then, before Graham could ask the obvious question, he said, “Never mind how I got it. Just look at it. I took the liberty of highlighting the good parts.”
With a frown Graham picked the papers off the desk and began to look through them, his eyes moving to the yellow lines on the pages. It took him a minute or so to understand what he was reading, but when the realization came he looked at Daniel.
“How did he find out about this?” The words came out almost as a croak.
“I have no idea,” Daniel said. “What I do know is that if this gets out, your campaign is dead.”
“What is it?” George asked.
When Graham turned to his father, who sat in the dim light near the door, he found that Daniel wasn’t the only one who looked old. At this moment, George looked a lot like Sal.
“CJ’s written an article about the prisons, Dad. He’s got it all here. He even mentions Weidman.”
George didn’t say anything, though it seemed to Graham as if his father sank into himself.
“You didn’t do anything when I told you he was poking around in the library,” Daniel said. “Are you going to let this go too and ruin any chance you have of winning that senate seat?”
“Or worse, wind up in jail,” George said.
Graham didn’t know what to say. This thing he’d started with such confidence had begun to spiral out of control. And what made it worse was that, before he started down this path, he knew the thing with Eddie was out there—this thing from his past that would haunt everything he did. He knew his brother was out there. He hadn’t any delusions that this was about anything but Eddie Montgomery. CJ was writing this article as a way of making him pay for the knowledge Graham had forced him to carry since childhood.
“You have to make a decision, boy,” George said, once Graham’s silence had stretched into minutes.
And when Graham heard this latest in a long series of admonitions from his father, something inside him snapped, made him stand up and fix the old man with an icy stare.
“If you ever call me ‘boy’ again, it’ll be the last time you do.” When his father didn’t answer, Graham turned to his college friend. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Since it’s my money, I should probably have a seat at the table.” The man who entered the room walked in as if he owned it, and none of the other three men assembled seemed inclined to argue the point.
“Hello, Jake,” the elder Baxter said as Weidman took off his cowboy hat and lowered himself into the only remaining chair.
“George,” he said.
The elder Baxter appraised the newcomer for a moment and then said, “You know about this?”
“I knew he was poking around,” Weidman said. “I didn’t know he’d gotten as far as he has until Daniel brought it to my attention.”
George chewed on that for a time, then gave a slow nod.
“This comes out, it’s not just a senate seat we lose. We’re talking serious jail time.”
“I’m well aware of that, George. Well aware.” Weidman didn’t say anything else. He leaned back in the seat, wearing a grim smile.
The four of them let the silence linger, each pondering the crisis they shared.
“You’ve been playing cards with him,” George commented.
“Indeed I have been,” Weidman said, looking down at his boots. “Good cardplayer too.” He chuckled to himself and then looked up, making sure he had George’s eye. “Your son’s a good man, George. A good man.”
George absorbed that, seemed to toss it around in his mind for a while before saying, “I don’t suppose that makes much difference.”
The silence that settled over the room was absolute save for the sound coming from the grandfather clock, the most tangible reminder of the now-deceased Sal Baxter, who seemed once again to be presiding over family affairs.
“He’s not blood,” George said quietly, as if to himself. Then he looked up and caught Graham’s eye. “Not really.”
Graham locked eyes with his father, and George held the stare, unflinching. Graham didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink. The four men sat in the silence for a long while, well after George’s cigar had gone out.
Chapter 30
Artie called it real hunting, and CJ guessed that was as good a name for it as any. The plan had them driving to Meachem Lake, in the Northwestern Lakes region of the Adirondacks, where they would ditch the truck and aim for Black Mountain, then turn south toward High Peaks. Somewhere along the way, Artie hoped to bag his first buck of the season. Artie called the trip a reward of sorts, although he’d been vague as to the nature of the accomplishment that warranted the celebration, to the point that CJ hadn’t yet figured out who was being rewarded: Artie or him.
His boss, though, had talked of nothing else since the idea came to him, and at some point during the planning CJ had started to suspect that Artie was looking at this trip as his last. There was no hiding the fact that the man’s knees had deteriorated, even over the last few weeks. Their last hunting trip—one a good deal milder than the one they were now undertaking—had required almost a full week’s recovery. Artie was planning this as his last hurrah, before the pain restricted him to fishing.
They had that covered too. They’d brought their fly rods so they’d be ready to take advantage of any pristine locations they chanced upon. Artie said he remembered a few, and although it had been many years since CJ’s last excursion, he thought he remembered a few spots himself.
Other details of the trip were a bit vague to CJ. Such as how Artie would survive for four days—which was how long he thought the excursion would take—in forbidding terrain on knees that could hardly carry him to work every morning. A second question was how they would carry a deer in either direction, either to their rendezvous with Dennis or back out the way they’d come—if they took one too early. In the end, CJ had decided to trust that Artie knew what he was doing. Besides, if this trip was what he thought it was, he wouldn’t th
ink of talking Artie out of it, even if it meant CJ would have to carry both Artie and a deer on his back.
Artie guided the Chevy down the 458, making good time toward Spring Cove, just west of Meachem, where they would catch lunch before finishing the trip to the lake. The whole thing still sounded like a bad idea to CJ. He glanced at Artie’s leg.
“Steroids,” Artie said.
“What?” CJ asked.
“The doc shot my knees up with steroids,” Artie explained. “Helps bring down the pain and the stiffness.” When his passenger didn’t respond, Artie took his eyes from the road long enough to give CJ a half smile. “I saw you looking. You’re wondering how I’m going to hold up.”
CJ returned Artie’s smile with one of his own. “You’re right.
I was.”
“Don’t worry. I feel better than I have in years.”
CJ took him at his word and decided not to worry about it—or any other aspect of their trip. He turned and looked through the rear window to see how Thor was faring. He hated that he’d become the guy who let his dog ride in the back of a pickup on the highway, but Artie had assured him Thor would be fine, and so far he was. At the moment the Lab was lying down, and he looked the part of the comfortable passenger. CJ decided to emulate him. He settled back against the seat and closed his eyes.
The next time he opened them, he was alone in the truck, which was parked next to a gas pump. After a yawn he got out and breathed in the cold, clean air. Thor was at Artie’s feet, sniffing around the gas pump.
“How long was I out?” he asked Artie.
“Only thirty minutes or so. We still have about an hour to go.”
“Alright. I’m going to go inside and get a soda,” CJ said. He started for the store and Thor began to follow.
“Stay,” CJ said, and with a mournful look Thor complied. As CJ was almost to the door of the convenience store he reached into his pocket for his roll of bills, and didn’t find it.
“My other pants,” he groaned to himself. With a headshake he started heading back to the truck. Before he reached it, though, Artie pulled out his wallet and tossed it to CJ.
“Get me one too,” Artie said.
Inside, CJ got a can of Coke for himself and a diet for Artie. At the register he fished out two dollars and handed them over. While the clerk made change, CJ thumbed through the pictures in Artie’s wallet. The first was of his wife, whom CJ had only seen twice in the whole time he’d worked for Artie. She seemed nice enough, but the picture captured what CJ would have called her principal characteristic: severity. The next photo was of two young children, both of whom favored Artie’s wife, and since CJ knew that Artie didn’t have kids, he guessed these were other relations on his wife’s side of the family.
The last picture—the one CJ flipped to just as the clerk handed him the change—required closer scrutiny, for there was no mistaking one of the two faces in it. It was his dad as a much younger man. With as picture-happy a family as CJ’s, there were thousands of pictures of every aspect of family life, dutifully catalogued in countless photo albums. The man staring back at CJ from the wallet-sized photograph was his dad in his late teens or early twenties, sometime during his first few years of college. This picture captured what all the pictures from that time caught: confidence, charm, and something CJ didn’t recognize until much later—a hint of cruelty.
It was reasonable to assume that the other man in the picture, the one with his arm around George’s shoulders, was Artie. Yes, he could see some of the features of the older man in the younger.
There was something else too, although CJ couldn’t put his finger on it at the moment. He was curious; he hadn’t realized Artie and his father had been friends.
He flipped the pictures back into place and was just about to slip Artie’s change in the wallet when the thing that had eluded him rose to the surface. He almost dropped the coins as he snapped the wallet back open and found the picture. He took a closer look at the young Artie—the one wearing a smile as wide as George’s, only more genuine. He recognized the face; it was the same one his mother had in her attic, though that one had been a bit older. It wasn’t the same picture, yet it was definitely Artie.
CJ studied the picture for several seconds, until someone came up behind him. With a frown he closed the wallet, picked up the two cans of soda, and went out to the truck.
The truck was two hours behind them. Artie had decided to leave it in Spring Cove and proceed to the lake on foot, and they’d picked a trail that CJ thought would have earned a moderate rating in any guidebook. It was the kind of trail that required a little care and some endurance to traverse, and at CJ’s insistence they took it slow—to make sure that Artie’s juiced-up knees could take the strain. So far he was handling the hike like a much younger man. CJ was glad to see the smile that had taken up permanent residence on the man’s face.
White pines lined both sides of the trail, with the occasional sugar maple or balsam fir mixed in. Twice CJ spotted whitetail, but he couldn’t have gotten off a shot through the thick forest even if he’d wanted to.
Artie’s plan was to camp on the lakeshore. Then, after a day of fishing, they would either pay someone at Meachem’s only campground to ferry them across, or they would round the lake’s southern border. Farther on, once they reached the small rivers that wound between Meachem and Black Mountain, they would leave the marked trails entirely and head off on their own. Somehow they’d have to make sure they came out the other side near Beverly, where Dennis would be waiting to take them back to Artie’s truck. That was the plan anyway. CJ wondered if, steroids or not, Artie’s legs would hold out that long.
So far they hadn’t seen signs that anyone else was out here, and the farther they went, the more that possibility dropped. At this time of year, with the threat of real cold hovering over the park, only the most determined hikers would venture far. The only thing that belied the sense of rustic adventure CJ wanted to cultivate was the network of well-maintained trails and roads that crisscrossed the park. He hoped the route Artie had mapped out would keep them away from all encroachments of civilization.
Thor kept pace twenty yards ahead and occasionally doubled back to make sure CJ and Artie were following.
“Are you okay carrying all that?” CJ asked.
Each of them carried a backpack containing the basics, as well as sleeping bags, guns, and fly rods. CJ carried the tent. It was a load for a seasoned hiker, and while Artie was that, he was also a bit past his prime.
“I’m doing just fine,” Artie said. “Never better.”
“In that case, do you want to carry my pack too?”
Artie chuckled and hiked on.
After another mile, CJ thought of the photograph.
“Artie, why is there a picture of you and my dad in your wallet?”
It was the first time since the start of their hike that Artie stumbled, his foot slipping into a depression that he should have seen. He righted himself a second later and, after a single cautious step, started off again.
“Are you okay?” CJ asked.
“I’m fine. Just wasn’t watching where I’m going.”
CJ nodded, even though Artie was in front of him and couldn’t see the gesture.
Neither man said anything for a quarter mile, until CJ thought that Artie either hadn’t heard the question, or had forgotten it when he lost his footing. He was about to repeat it when Artie said, “Your father and I used to be friends. All through high school.”
“I didn’t know that,” CJ said, although it wasn’t much of a revelation. The picture suggested as much.
“Back then I spent a lot of time at your grandfather’s place. Your dad and I would go hunting pretty often. I’d help your grandfather around the house some.” He glanced back at CJ, a twinkle in his eye. “Did you know that your grandmother was once the prettiest woman in the county?”
CJ laughed at the question. He’d seen the pictures, of course, and Artie was right. Hi
s grandmother had been a dish, to use the parlance of the period.
“You old dog,” CJ said.
Artie chuckled and shook his head.
“What happened, Artie? Why aren’t you and my dad friends anymore?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because, after high school, your dad went off to college and I stayed here. Different worlds, I guess.”
CJ had more questions. He hadn’t spoken to many people who knew his father as a young man. But it was apparent that Artie wasn’t in the mood to talk in depth about this long-dead friendship, so CJ didn’t press.
They walked on in silence.
“The temperature’s dropped ten degrees already,” CJ said, glad he’d made another run to the sporting goods store in preparation for the trip. He was warm enough but suspected that his new sleeping bag wouldn’t hold back the entirety of the chill, even with the help of the fire.
“I’m thinking a frost tonight,” Artie said.
“Well, don’t,” CJ said. “You’ll think it into existence.”
Artie and CJ each held a stick over the fire with an impaled hot dog on their respective ends. CJ had brought them, reasonably confident they’d remain edible through their first night. After that, they would have to resort to granola bars, beef jerky, the few canned items they’d brought along, and whatever fish they could catch. CJ’s hot dog was approaching the point at which it appeared wrapped in a black coat, and after another few seconds he pulled it away from the flame. Thor watched as CJ ate the hot dog without condiments or a bun.
“You had the first two,” CJ said to him. When the hot dog was gone he poured himself a cup of hot, bitter coffee. “To think that people have shunned all of this for convenient things like microwaves.”
“But they don’t have this,” Artie said, using his now barren stick to point at the sky.
CJ had to give him that. He hadn’t seen a starscape like this one in a long time. Stars so big and bright he felt as if he could touch them.
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