There was a lot of anger. But then I started visiting here sometimes on holidays.'
'Did you and Astrid get along?'
There came another measured pause.
'Yes. I mean, she wasn't really a warm person, and I was programmed to hate her at first. But she was nice to me, and fascinating because she seemed so glamorous. Expecially because I was such a mouse.'
'Okay, here's what I'm getting at-and understand, this is still just speculation, all riding on that big 'if,'' Gary said. 'First off, let's throw out any notion that her murder was random, or a crime of opportunity. He planned it carefully, and that tells me he had a strong reason. Finding that reason just might find him.
'So, Renee, I want you to remember everything you can about Astrid. Who she spent time with, quarrels or rough spots or if she seemed to be hiding something-every little detail you think of, even if it don't seem important. And, sorry to say this, but be careful to keep your father in mind. You might unconsciously tend toward leaving him out.'
She looked uncomfortable and I understood why. The task would be emotionally bruising.
But she nodded and said, 'I'll start making notes about it. And some things Hugh and I talked about last night, if you want.'
'I'm glad for anything you can come up with. Now I need a word with you two gents.'
He walked Madbird and me over to his car, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and eyed us with an authoritative stare.
'Being as how you're in on this, whether anybody likes it or not,' he said, with the none-too-vague suggestion that he himself didn't, 'you might do some quiet nosing around. If you run into anything, you will not act on it yourselves. You'll call me immediately, twenty-four seven.'
He scribbled briefly on a notepad, then tore the sheet in halves and handed one to each of us-his office, cell, and home phone numbers.
'I'm not crazy about amateur help, but a lot of people will open up more to somebody who's not a cop,' he said. 'And you guys have impressed me with your talent for-let's call it 'disinformation.''
That gave my pulse rate a boost. It wasn't anything that all three of us weren't well aware of, but I didn't like hearing him say it out loud.
But Madbird, unshaken, grinned. ''Disinformation.' I ain't heard that word since Nam.'
Gary's face also creased in a smile, wolfish in its own way.
'It means pretty much the same thing now as it did then,' he said.
After Gary left and Madbird took my truck with our tools to Split Rock, I went to the house to find Renee. She met me at the door as usual, but this time with a brittle politeness that radiated pique.
'So I'm open to the public, but you guys cozy up in private?' she said.
That had been Gary's decision, not mine, but I was still chagrined for not realizing that she was upset.
'We weren't talking behind your back, Renee. It didn't really have anything to do with you.'
'This all has something to do with me. Why couldn't I hear it?'
That wasn't an easy question to field. Now wasn't the right moment to tell her about my criminal career, and I couldn't think of any partial explanations that didn't make me sound even worse than I'd been.
'Gary was reminding us that we owe him,' I finally said. 'And he can call in the marker anytime.'
'Owe him for what?' she said, still skeptical, but with the edge fading.
I stepped closer to her, just enough so our forearms brushed.
'Maybe we could trade secrets later,' I said. 'When you're ready to tell me that one of yours.'
She leaned against me lightly and spoke into my shoulder. 'I'm getting there. It's a raw nerve, and Gary jammed his finger right on it, asking me to think about Astrid. Kind of spooky.'
'Well, that's the issue right now. And let's face it, it's your issue.'
'I know. Sorry I snapped at you. I started feeling outnumbered by you guys.'
'I make a pretty good punching bag,' I said. 'I've got a lot of experience.'
'Can I ask you to take me for another drive?' Her face was still pressed against me, her voice muffled.
I decided the deadbolts could wait. She was only going to be here one more night. If she had something on her mind, that came first.
'Sure, if we can use your car,' I said. 'Where to?'
'You live out in the country, right?'
'Yeah?'
'Is there a place we could shoot your pistol?'
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
30
Renee's car, a tight, tough little Subaru Outback, easily handled the mud and ruts of the road up Stumpleg Gulch. When we got to my cabin, I made a quick check around the premises. Everything seemed fine in my little world, including the black tomcat, aside from him being pissed about my absence and loudly letting me know it.
Then I led Renee through the woods to the back part of the property. Like at Astrid's cabin last night, she wasn't dressed for the outdoors-she was wearing the same street boots and shearling coat-so I took an indirect route to pick the driest and easiest going.
But she didn't seem concerned about that or even to notice her surroundings, except to glance occasionally at the.45, which I was carrying in its gun belt, slung over my shoulder. She'd been quiet, her focus inward, all during the drive here, and had said just enough for me to glean that whatever unsettling revelation she was about to make was connected to Astrid and to firing a weapon.
Her capacity for keeping me off balance hadn't diminished, that was for sure.
As we walked, I kept an eye out for signs of my new neighbor bobcat. I didn't see any, but I was far from expert at that sort of thing and fresh tracks would be hard to pick up, anyway. The snow was still ankle-deep in spots but there hadn't been any recent fall, and while the surface melted slightly during the warming days, it froze to a crust again at night, with the underneath staying grainy. The result was that feet, paws, and hooves left clumsy outlines to begin with, which quickly blurred into vague depressions.
If he was around, he wouldn't be for long-as soon as Renee started blowing a window through this peaceful afternoon and into her past.
The landscape opened up when we came to the steep mountainside that formed my northeast border. It was a perfect backdrop for shooting; my father had set up a range with target stands and distances marked up to two hundred yards, which we'd used both for recreation and to sight in our rifles for hunting.
I set up one of the paper targets I'd brought along, a standard two-foot square with concentric rings. I decided to start Renee close in. The.45 could be reasonably accurate in skilled hands, but it was designed to knock a man down if the slug even touched him rather than for precision. I walked to the ten-yard marker, hung the gunbelt on a pine stob, and while I always kept the chamber clear until I was ready to fire, I did a routine check to make certain.
'Ever shoot a pistol before?' I asked her.
'Some, growing up. Daddy had a twenty-two he used for teaching my brother and me.'
'I assume he talked about safety?'
'Over and over again. Assume it's always loaded. Never let the barrel point at anyone. Make sure everybody's behind you before you shoot.'
'That's a good start. Did he show you a stance?'
She moved slowly, remembering body commands that had long since gone rusty, but she stepped into a correct firing range position-imaginary pistol in both hands, arms extended straight in front of her, feet shoulder- width apart.
'Good again,' I said. 'Next, this thing's a long way from a twenty-two.'
'I shot a bigger one once-nine-millimeter, I remember.'
'A forty-five's still got a lot more whack. Somebody as light as you, it's going to jolt you pretty hard, and the
