Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One - Quantico, Virginia

  Chapter Two - Bemidji, Minnesota

  Chapter Three - Bemidji, Minnesota

  Chapter Four - Bemidji, Minnesota

  Chapter Five - Bemidji, Minnesota

  Chapter Six - Hibbing, Minnesota

  Chapter Seven - Jesup, Georgia

  Chapter Eight - Bemidji, Minnesota

  Chapter Nine - Brunswick, Georgia

  Chapter Ten - Brunswick, Georgia

  Chapter Eleven - Bemidji, Minnesota

  Epilogue

  Profile in Thanks

  About the Author

  OBSIDIAN

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, November 2008

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  I would like to acknowledge my assistant

  on this work, co-plotter/researcher

  Matthew V. Clemens.

  Further acknowledgments appear

  at the conclusion of this novel.

  M.A.C.

  For Brad Schwartz—

  the Ness kid

  PROLOGUE

  Bemidji, Minnesota

  The first rays of a November sunrise peeked over the horizon as if making sure the coast was clear before the sun gave up its cover. In his deer stand, fifteen feet up and wedged into a triangle of aspen trees, William Kwitcher looked down through the tightly bunched thicket, his breath visible.

  A skinny man in his early thirties, Billy Kwitcher was covered head to toe in camouflage for the benefit of the deer that Daniel Abner, their guide, insisted would be here. One hundred yards to Billy’s left, Abner occupied the next stand, and one hundred yards beyond Abner perched Billy’s friend Logan Tweed. Abner, a balding man in his mid-forties, leased this land from Bassinko Industries, the lumber company that owned literally millions of acres of forest in the United States.

  The guide had brought Billy and Tweed to this section of forest because gun season was now open, and Abner knew that the only gun hunters they might meet in these woods would be trespassers. Bow hunters would be in camouflage, while the gun hunters would be in orange. A camouflaged hunter moving around in a forest filled with gun hunters was just asking to be the victim of an accidental shooting.

  Though he had practiced hard since last season, Billy was on only his second bow hunt. The first, last year, had proved dangerous chiefly to two pine trees Billy had plunked when he missed his meager two shots at bucks. He was better now, steadier. Working out had helped his strength, pulling the bow string, but had made no evident change to his wiry frame.

  Below him, a six-point buck paused, nose in the air, sniffing carefully for signs of danger.

  Holding his breath now, Billy willed the steam of his previous breath to dissipate before it reached the wary nostrils of his new target. Bow ready, arrow nocked, Billy tried to not move a single muscle as he waited for the buck to move farther toward the edge line separating the thicker growth that held his stand, and the thinner growth mere yards away.

  Though the deer lived in the thicker woods, they fed in the nearby area, harvested about five years ago. In that section, the less dense trees allowed for more ground foliage for the deer to eat. That made the edge line, the border of the two areas, the place to hunt.

  The edge line also made the buck more cautious than a field mouse trying to skirt around a sleeping rattlesnake. That was a sight not completely unfamiliar to Billy—once, back in the hills of his native Arkansas, he’d tossed a pebble at a rattler sunning itself on a flat rock. The snake coiled and its head popped up, its tail shaking its warning. A mouse on the nearby ground had frozen, in the vain hope that the snake would not see it. When the rodent finally made a dash for freedom, it got only two steps before the snake struck.

  From then on, Billy had spent much more time studying snakes than mice.

  ‘‘A hunter who can stalk a predator,’’ his father had told him, ‘‘is a good hunter, indeed.’’

  Billy Kwitcher had worked very hard at becoming a good hunter.

  The buck beneath his deer stand sniffed the air again. Billy considered his options. From here, he had no shot. The only thing to do was wait. Finally, as if answering Billy’s silent pleas, the buck took one step toward the edge line.

  He sniffed; he stepped.

  He sniffed; he stepped.

  The tension was agonizing as Billy waited for the buck to give him an open shot. The passing seconds seemed interminable as the buck did its best to protect itself.

  Finally, just as the buck edged into the harvested forest to feed, Billy drew back the stiff string of the bow, his muscles burning. He aimed, and just as the animal lowered his head to feed, Billy loosed the arrow.

  He could barely make out the shaft’s flight in the shadowy woods, but he heard the satisfying thunk as arrow met buck and passed through the creature before the deer even realized it had been hit.

  As the arrow sailed off, the buck shuddered and stumbled, head popping up, eyes locking with Billy’s for a split second before it turned away and sprinted off through the new woods, a red blossom vis
ible just behind its shoulder.

  When he saw that, Billy knew he’d made his shot. The arrow had pierced both lungs. The buck wouldn’t die instantly, but the wound would be mortal.

  That did not mean the carcass wouldn’t end up half a mile or more away. Billy quelled the urge to climb down and take off in chase of the deer. One turn back this way by the buck could lead Billy right into the firing line of his two companions. That was assuming no other bow or gun hunters were in these woods. They weren’t supposed to be, but Billy knew that phrase could end up being his epitaph. . . .

  He checked his watch. The LED numbers read just after seven a.m. He was scheduled to meet the others at eight at the base of his stand. As the minutes crawled by, Billy checked his watch regularly, trying to will time to move faster.

  Billy imagined different scenarios ranging from never finding the buck to poachers gutting his kill and leaving only the rendered carcass for him to find. None of his daydreams ended with him simply tracking down the buck, cleaning it, and hauling home all that meat. Such simply wasn’t how Billy Kwitcher’s life had worked out up till now.

  Even the littlest success for Billy had to be tempered by some sort of serious setback. The unfairness of Billy’s lot in life always seemed worse when Billy had time to think about it, and right now he had plenty of time to do just that.

  At five until the hour, unable to hold off any longer, Billy sent a text message to his two companions. Right on schedule, Tweed and Abner appeared at the base of Billy’s tree just as he got to the ground.

  The three men stripped off their camouflage masks and all stretched to relieve the stiffness from being in the stands all morning. Under his mask, Abner—with a fire-hydrant frame and heavier than the others—had a scraggly gray beard, wire-frame glasses and stubbly patches of gray where his skull wasn’t bald.

  Still, it was Abner who moved easily through the woods. This was a point of contention with Billy, who wanted to be stealthy but usually had to settle for not clumsy.

  Tweed had a hawkish nose, green eyes, and stood half a head taller than Billy. Around the same age as Billy, Tweed had an unruly mop of brown hair and a tiny soul patch that looked like dirt he’d missed when washing his face.

  Tweed gave Billy a clap on the back. ‘‘Way to go! You got one, buddy.’’

  Abner, the guide, gave him a thumbs-up. ‘‘Told you we’d bag a deer on this trip.’’

  Tweed asked, ‘‘Was it a good shot?’’

  ‘‘Punched both damn lungs,’’ Billy said, pulling himself up a little straighter.

  ‘‘Cool,’’ Tweed said. ‘‘Means he probably didn’t get far.’’

  But Abner was shaking his head. ‘‘You’d be surprised how far a wounded buck can get. Suckers’re fast, and it takes a while for ’em to figure out they’re dead.’’

  Billy led them to the spot in the edge line where he’d nailed the buck.

  Looking back toward Billy’s stand, Tweed said, ‘‘Damn good shot, Billy boy.’’

  Nodding, Abner said, ‘‘Not bad. Not bad at all, Billy.’’ Kneeling, the guide looked at the blood spot on the ground. ‘‘Frothy.’’

  ‘‘Frothy?’’ Tweed asked.

  Abner nodded. ‘‘Lung blood.’’

  Billy wanted to stay cool, but his cheeks burned pink with pride.

  They all looked down at the scarlet puddle mixed into the dead weeds and thin layer of snow. Last night’s flurries had left an accumulation of less than half an inch. November in Minnesota meant always straddling the possibilities of Indian summer or blizzard conditions.

  Abner asked, ‘‘Which way did it take off?’’

  Billy pointed southeast, back toward the road they had come in on, where they’d left Abner’s SUV. The vehicle was a good mile or so away. Still, seemed more likely the buck had veered into the heavier woods and away from the road.

  ‘‘All right,’’ Abner said. ‘‘Let’s spread out and find the blood trail.’’

  Tweed said, ‘‘Quite a bit of blood here. . . .’’

  ‘‘Some,’’ Abner allowed. ‘‘But the drops will be smaller and harder to see with the buck in flight. Stay sharp.’’

  The trio spread out and slowly scanned the ground as they moved through the new growth of trees, in no rush. The forest, aspen trees, naturally grew back after a harvest, and that meant the lumber company did not have to plant new stems. Aspens were the backbone of the Minnesota lumber industry, their white trunks lining the two-lane highways that ran between many of the small towns up here, a good four hours north of Minneapolis.

  Around them, the land rolled gently in easy hills, making the walk through the new growth fairly easy. Each man kept his eyes glued to the ground until one spotted a drop and would sing out, ‘‘Got one!’’

  They combed the terrain for half an hour. The trees in this part of the forest were barely taller than Billy himself and similarly scrawny, the bigger ones only slightly larger in diameter than the hunter’s wrist.

  No one had said anything for over five minutes, and Billy worried they’d lost track of the buck, and the hunter’s stomach knotted as he worried they’d forfeited his prize.

  Finally, he had done something right. He, Billy Kwitcher, had bagged a deer. Except the goddamned thing had disappeared, and Billy was beginning to wonder if he’d dreamt the whole damn thing. . . .

  He bent lower, eyes flitting as he looked for any sign in the patchy snow or on any of the dead gray foliage.

  Then his eyes started to burn and Billy had to bite his lip to keep from crying. Nothing had gone right for him since he had moved to this miserable frozen hell two and a half years ago. This deer hunt, this day, finally something had gone his way and now, goddamnit, it was turning to vapor. If the poachers he’d imagined earlier had gutted his kill, at least the carcass would be there, so he could have his buddies know that he had actually killed the damn buck. . . .

  Now, he knew, they were both thinking that dumb ol’ Billy had just winged the thing, then lied about his kill shot. More big talk, just like he always did down at Sully’s Tap, Billy always wrapping his insecurities in braggadocio and, even as he knew he was doing it, powerless to stop himself. But this time, this one fricking time, he had actually done something worth talking about—except finding the proof was harder than nailing the buck in the first place. . . .

  A glint of something red caught his eye.

  He froze.

  His eyes retraced their route and he saw it again: a spot of blood. They were still on the trail! He wanted to jump up and shout. He used his sleeve to swipe at his cheek, wiping away the tears. Of joy, this time.

  Forcing himself to stay cool, Billy swallowed thickly. Next, he tried out his voice in a whisper, and it seemed to be working. He got up his nerve, took a deep breath and yelled, ‘‘Got a drop!’’

  ‘‘About damn time!’’ Tweed yelled back, already narrowing the distance between them.

  From the other direction, Abner took a couple of tentative steps closer, then resumed moving forward.

  Billy focused long and hard on the scarlet droplet, relishing the feeling of triumph he got from the dot of deer’s blood. Then something on the ground next to the drop caught his attention, something sticking up and out of the snow and packed leaves, like a weird mushroom.

  No, more like a stick . . . except it wasn’t a stick—Billy knew that at once. Though the coloring was similar to the bleached bark of the aspen trees, he could tell it wasn’t something from one of them.

  This looked different.

  Kneeling down, looking at the pale little cylinder, Billy realized that whatever it was, it had neighbors: two on the left and one on the right, pudgy little sticks similar to the first one.

  Bones.

  They were dirty and some of the surface had been scraped clean. Something had, he realized, gnawed the meat off. Stunned, Billy jumped back.

  Abner called over, ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘A hand!’’ Billy yelled back,
as his two companions drew closer to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘‘What?’’ Abner asked.

  ‘‘A hand, a goddamn hand!’’ For all its volume, Billy’s voice was quavering, his eyes locked on the bony fingers that seemed to be trying to dig their way out of their isolated grave.

  The other two pressed in close around Billy and looked down at his macabre discovery.

  ‘‘Oooooh, shit,’’ Tweed said, turning away.

  ‘‘What the hell?’’ Abner asked. He looked at the fingers. ‘‘No goddamn way! This can’t be happening again.’’

  Billy blinked. ‘‘What can’t be happening?’’

  Abner and Tweed shared a look, but Billy couldn’t read it. The guide’s face was as white as the bark on the surrounding aspens, and tears began to dribble down his cheeks. Neither man said a word, their silence speaking volumes to each other, but meaning nothing to Billy.

  ‘‘What can’t be happening again?’’ he repeated.

  Tweed shot him a look. ‘‘Billy, just shut the hell up, okay? For once, just shut the hell up.’’

  Billy began to respond anyway, but another sharp look from Tweed stopped him.

  Not knowing what else to do, Billy sat down on a nearby fallen log and stared at the dead thing sticking out of the ground, as if waiting for the body to climb from the snowy ground and say something.

  Tweed squatted and reached for what was left of the hand.

  ‘‘Whoa up there, Logan,’’ Abner said, pulling his cell phone out of a pocket. ‘‘You can’t do whoever-it-is any good, at this late date. Best leave this for the cops.’’

  Cops.

  The word cut through Billy like the arrow he’d fired through the buck. Suddenly, breathing grew difficult, and despite the chill, he could feel sweat popping out on his brow.

  Just like everything else in Billy Kwitcher’s life, even shooting the buck was going to end up turning to crap.

  Lewis Garue wore many hats: husband, father of two, member of the Red Lake Band of the Chippewa Nation, and today, detective—driving his own 2003 Toyota Land Cruiser in lieu of a Beltrami County Dodge Durango.