A Stolen Season: An Alex McKnight Novel (An Alex Mcknight Novel Series)

by Steve Hamilton

  “On a foggy night. Maybe they couldn’t get across the water yet, so they were waiting…Killing time at the casino, rounding up a few pills, just for themselves.”

  “But now if their box of money is at the bottom of the lake…”

  “They’re in a tough spot. They probably don’t know what to do. They might be afraid to go back empty-handed.”

  “So maybe I can give them a little nudge.”

  “Exactly,” Leon said. He got out of the truck. “Make them feel a little homesick.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “One more thing…I probably shouldn’t even have to say this, but make sure you load the gun.”

  “They won’t know if it’s not loaded.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll know. It’ll make a big difference, believe me.”

  He was right again. He almost always was. I took the gun and I left him standing there in his driveway. As I looked back in the rearview mirror, I could see him watching me until I was out of sight.

  Chapter Nine

  I left the gun in the box all the way down there. Hessel is about fifty miles due south, so it didn’t take long. Once I got there, though, I had to pull out Caroline’s map to find the house. The Les Cheneaux Islands are scattered all along the Lake Huron shoreline—I’d once heard somebody say there are thirty-six main islands, with almost as many little peninsulas jutting out from the mainland. Overall, there were hundreds of channels running through the whole area, some of them wide and inviting, some rocky and shallow. It was a beautiful part of the state, but easy to get hopelessly lost in.

  I left the main road in Hessel, past the big marina where they had the Antique Wooden Boat Show every August. We were still a month away, but I had to wonder what they’d do this year if the weather didn’t improve. If summer never really came.

  It was past noon now. I knew I was close to the house. The secondary road ran down one of the thin peninsulas, with lots of trees on both sides of the road, driveways, signs with cute names on them. Gaston’s Getaway. Ratlinburg’s Retreat. These were all summer places, and from the looks of them they were summer places for people who had a lot of money. I knew this place was booming, but I had never been down all the way to water, had never seen the money firsthand.

  I watched the numbers on the mailboxes until I figured I was about a quarter mile away from the house I was looking for. I didn’t want to risk driving by it, so I pulled down a driveway and left my truck in the high weeds so the owner of the place could get by me if he had to. If it came to that I’d give him some story about breaking down on the road and pulling off.

  Of course, if this was really a summerhouse, the owner probably wasn’t here anyway. It’s one thing to escape the heat of the Detroit suburbs. It’s another to exchange it for what feels like a chilly day in March.

  I took the gun out of the shoebox. Leon’s Ruger P95 semiautomatic. I picked up a cartridge, felt its weight in my hand. I heard Leon’s words in my head. There was no point in carrying it if I couldn’t depend on it when I needed it.

  That’s when it all caught up to me. I am sitting here in my truck with a gun in my hand.

  “You’re actually going to do this,” I said to myself. I pictured Vinnie’s bloody face.

  “Damned right I am.” I slid the cartridge into the gun and got out of the truck.

  I had a light jacket on, partly so I could hide the gun when I tucked it into my waistband. I walked back to the main road, hung a right, and kept walking down toward the house. I listened carefully for the sound of a vehicle. If I had to, I could make it into the brush before anybody on the road saw me. But there was no traffic that morning. The whole place seemed to be deserted. Again, not a huge surprise, given the way the day felt.

  The house was a little farther down than I thought it would be. I had to be even more careful now as I made my way along the driveway. I was about halfway to the end when I saw the house. It was a big post-and-beam-style cabin, maybe a little over the top with all the windows and the complicated roof. But it had definitely set someone back a few bucks.

  When I got a little closer, I could see three vehicles—a red Viper, a silver Mercedes, and the black Escalade I already knew so well. I stopped and waited to see any signs of life in the house. There were a few lights on inside, but what the hell. Wasting electricity was probably pretty low on their list of sins. I made myself wait a few more minutes, then I approached the house. Peeking in the first window I came to, I saw a big open living room, lots of empty bottles on the table, plenty of trash all over the place. I kept working my way around the perimeter, looking in each window. More lights on, more mess. No people.

  In back of the place, there was a deck and a scruffy yard with a horseshoe pit, a few dozen empty beer bottles scattered at both ends. Then, beyond that, a dock on the channel. I was sure the wooden boat had been kept there. The dock was empty now. I could see the tops of two more houses on the other side of the channel, but I was pretty sure nobody could see me standing here, or anything that I was about to do.

  So far so good.

  I went onto the back deck, past the gas grill that was in serious need of cleaning, and tried the back door. It was unlocked.

  I opened it slowly. I took the gun out of my waistband. This was definitely feeling like something serious now. I made my way through the living room to the big spiral staircase by the fireplace. Whoever built this place had spared no expense, but somehow it all didn’t seem to work together. The staircase was too big, too overdone, and not in the right place. It was too far from the natural flow of traffic. And the bricks they chose for the fireplace…

  Enough, I thought. This is not why you’re here.

  I went up the stairs, poked my head in each of the three bedrooms. Three empty beds, all in total disarray. There were lots more bottles, some questionable reading material, and in one room the distinct lingering odor of marijuana. The good news, I said to myself, was that these guys had never tried to rent a cabin from me.

  Once I knew that the place was empty, I went back downstairs and looked everything over more carefully. On the kitchen counter I found a boat key attached to a bobber. Must be a duplicate, I thought, for that boat that looks like a piece of modern art now. I found more cigarettes, an overflowing ashtray. I found more empty beer bottles. Lousy American beer, of course.

  Then I found three pill bottles. All labeled Vicodin, with all the usual warnings about mixing with alcohol or operating a vehicle or heavy machinery. Sure enough, two of the bottles had been prescribed to Caroline. They were empty. The third had been prescribed to someone named Roseanne Felise. It was still half full. Or half empty, depending on how badly you needed those pills.

  I slipped the bottle into my pocket, figuring I could give it to Vinnie later. It would be a good conversation starter if he decided to pay a visit to Ms. Felise.

  I found something even more interesting on the kitchen table. Someone had spread out a large map showing all the waterways between Michigan and Ontario. The Les Cheneaux Islands, the top of Lake Huron, from Mackinac Island all the way over to St. Joseph Island in Canada. The St. Marys River, up through the locks, into Whitefish Bay. It was all there, with detailed information on water depths and areas of danger.

  I looked closely and saw the old bridge pilings clearly marked in Waishkey Bay. It’s a good map, guys, but it can’t help you if you don’t read it.

  “Where are you right now, anyway?” I said out loud. My voice sounded strange to me in the empty house.

  “And more important, how long am I gonna have to sit here until you get back?”

  If they were gone for the day, I realized, I was going to be stuck here for hours. I took out my cell phone, looked at the display. It was going back and forth between a faint digital signal and a faint analog roam. I didn’t even know if Natalie would be able to reach me. If she called.

  Damn, I wanted to do something, anything, so bad. But now I’d have to wait. This would drive me right over t
he edge.

  Unless I left and came back later. Sneak back out now, come back in the evening. Damn.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to wrestle with my options for long. I heard footsteps on the front porch.

  “You’re here,” I said. “For once, you’re gonna do me a favor.”

  I checked the gun. I got myself ready. It was showtime.

  I was thinking I should let all three of them come in first. Get them all together in one confined space. I needed to hide out for a minute here…But where?

  The spiral staircase, I thought. Right behind here. It’s big enough to hide me, and it’s out of the way. Perfect.

  I stepped behind it and waited. My heart was a jackhammer.

  Breathe, man. Just breathe. Nice and easy. You’re cold. You’re a freakin’ ice cube.

  I heard them arguing outside. “How much longer we gotta stay here, huh? I’m going crazy here.” A deep voice. I was guessing it was the big guy, Brucie. “I can’t stand this fucking place.”

  “I don’t even want to hear it, all right? Just shut the fuck up.”

  I peeked around the edge, didn’t see any of them coming in yet. Where the hell were they?

  One man came through the door. It was Cap. He opened up the refrigerator for a second, then closed it. Then he came into the main room. He was heading right for me. Still no sign of anybody else behind him.

  This wasn’t the way I wanted it to work, but what the hell. It was time to improvise, and just seeing this guy’s face again…Hitting him right in the mouth would feel like Christmas.

  I waited until he was about to take the first step on the stairs. There was still nobody else in the house. I switched the gun to my left hand, stepped out from behind the staircase and saw the surprise on his face for about half of one second. I was already stepping into the punch, a right hook that caught him square on the chin. It was solid enough to rattle my teeth—I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to him.

  Anybody else in the world, anybody, it would have been a cheap sucker punch. But for this guy I was willing to forgive myself. He went down hard and stayed on his back, his eyes wide open. I left him there and went into the kitchen to wait for his friends.

  I grabbed one of the beer bottles and waited next to the door. I heard them both coming in together. The kid was first. He still had the bandages on his head, like a turban. He was carrying a white Styrofoam cooler. The big guy Brucie came in right behind him. “Next time he tells me to shut up—,” I heard him say. He didn’t get the chance to finish it, because I shattered the beer bottle across the back of his head. A move right out of an old western, but it seemed to work. He went down about halfway, suspended there for a moment with his head between his knees. I gave him one good push with my foot, right in the backside, and sent him down on the kitchen floor. The kid stood there the whole time, still holding the cooler.

  “I assume you won’t be giving me a problem here,” I said.

  He nodded. That was it.

  “Good. Go sit down on the couch.”

  He did as he was told. Brucie started to get up on his hands and knees, so I put the gun to the back of his head. Everything Leon had said, it all came to me at once. Classic Leon stuff, but right now it was something to hold on to. Do this like it’s something I do every day, he had said, and twice on Sundays.

  “You’re going to crawl over to the couch,” I said. “Nice and slow.”

  “What the fuck!”

  “Get going. Or would you like me to shoot you?”

  He started to get up, so I gave him a boot again. He started crawling.

  “That’s better. On the couch with Harry.” I looked over at the kid. He was sitting on the couch with the cooler in his lap. “That’s your name, right?”

  He nodded. He was looking straight ahead. He still hadn’t said a word.

  “You can put the cooler down.”

  He put it down at his feet and sat back up straight. His body was so stiff he looked like a statue of a young man wearing a turban.

  Bruce finally made his way to the couch and sat down next to him. Cap was starting to get up now. He was rubbing his jaw.

  “You, too,” I said to him. “On the couch.”

  “You’re dead. You are an absolute dead man.”

  “Whatever you say. Just get on the couch.”

  He pulled himself up and crossed the room.

  “It’s a little cozy,” I said when they were all squeezed onto the couch. “But this won’t take long.”

  I’ve seen enough men with guns in my life—the man who really gets your attention isn’t the one who holds on tight with both hands, waving it around like he’s more scared of the thing than you are. No, the man who makes your heart stop is the man who holds a gun like it’s a part of him, like it’s no more unusual to be pointing a deadly weapon at your chest than it would be to hold a cigar or a pen. That’s the effect I was going for. I was about to see if it worked.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Cap said. He was still rubbing his jaw.

  I pulled up one of the club chairs and sat on the edge. I rubbed a piece of lint from the barrel of the gun. “Harry, this is your father’s house, right?”

  The kid flinched when I said his name.

  “His summerhouse?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re not taking very good care of it.”

  He swallowed hard. If it was possible for him to look any more miserable than he already was, he was giving it a good try.

  “Is that why you came here?” Cap said, giving off so much heat he was practically glowing. “To give us housekeeping tips?”

  “That’s a good line,” I said to him. “You have a natural talent.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink.

  “Anybody ever shoot you before?”

  Silence.

  “I had it happen to me once. You want to find out how it feels?”

  He nodded his head up and down, very slowly.

  “Okay, you’ll be first,” I said. “Anybody does something stupid, you get the first one.”

  He smiled at me. I did my best to smile right back.

  “What are you guys doing up here? Besides buying pills and beating people up?”

  “Your buddy jumped us,” Brucie said. “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Shut up, Brucie,” Cap said.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Don’t even try. I’ll do the talking here.”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s try to focus, guys. We need to come to an understanding here. The next time you’re thinking about coming up to one of the reservations, or to Sault Ste. Marie, or hell, let’s just say anywhere in Chippewa County…”

  “You got us all wrong,” Cap said. “We’re just some guys on vacation.”

  I pointed the gun at him. “How about this, Cap? The next time you say that, I’m going to shoot you in the face. Do you really want to give me an excuse? Because I’ll do it with great pleasure, believe me.”

  He looked at me for a long, long moment. Brucie was staring at the gun in my hand. Harry looked like he was about to be sick.

  “Okay, here’s your problem,” Cap said. He sat back in his seat and ran his hands together. “You’re not convincing at all. I mean, just listen to you…” He slid into an exaggerated Yooper accent. “‘One false move, I shoot you, eh?’ It doesn’t work.”

  I was about to tell him that I didn’t talk like that, that I was from Detroit just like him. But then I realized that the last thing I should do was start arguing with him. This whole thing was not going the way I wanted.

  “You can’t say ‘shoot,’ anyway,” he went on. “It’s an extremely lame word. It just sounds like you’re avoiding what a gun really does, which is kill somebody. You see what I’m getting at? It’s Alex, right? Isn’t that your name? If you’re the real thing, Alex, you’d be pointing that gun at me and saying, ‘I’m going to kill you.’ Doesn’t that sound a lot more believable?”


  I smiled at him. I could feel the sweat on my hands now. It was already getting to the point where I might have to do something drastic, like fire a round and take a little chunk out of somebody. But then all hell might have broken loose and I’d really have a serious situation on my hands.

  Before I could decide, I saw something change in Brucie’s eyes. He was looking over my shoulder.

  I was about to turn when I felt the cold steel pressed against my temple.

  “Drop it now,” a voice said from behind me, “or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  I dropped the gun. There was a bearskin rug on the floor. The gun hit the rug with a soft thud.

  “Pick it up, Cap.”

  Cap pulled himself off the sofa. “Hello, Mr. Gray,” he said. He moved slowly, looking me in the eye as he bent down to pick up the gun. When I was safely disarmed, the man took the gun from my head and stepped around me.

  He was tall. He was heavy. He was wearing a gray suit. His hair was gray. His eyes were gray. The fact that his name was apparently Mr. Gray was a bit more than my mind could handle at that moment. I had no idea what kind of trouble I had gotten myself into this time.

  Mr. Gray looked down at me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe. “Where do I begin?” he said.

  I was expecting a few questions from him, but he walked away from me and stood over the three men on the couch. He had put his gun away, somewhere deep in the recesses of his jacket.

  “Number one, what the hell happened to your head?”

  “A little accident, Dad.”

  “A little accident.” He turned back at me, like suddenly I was his sympathetic audience.

  “In the boat.”

  “You had an accident in the boat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which boat would you be referring to?”

  Harry didn’t answer.

  Mr. Gray looked at me again. “Something tells me I’m not going to like this.”

  “It was the wooden boat.”

  He nodded his head. “My antique Chris-Craft. The one I refinished by hand myself.”

  “I’m sorry. There were these pilings in the water.”