Without comment, Emery walked a circle through the grove. Harry and Jerry followed. Harry’s fingers were exploring the nubbin of thick thread on his trousers where a button was missing when he saw what Emery had paused to study.
82 / CHUCK LOGAN
The sweep-job led to ski tracks, distinct as two rails that fanned a turn around on a slight rise at the edge of the thicker timber above the grove. The tracks did not lead off toward the snowmobile trail.
Instead they cut overland through the cover of the trees parallel to the ridge. Hard going for anyone unless they had something very deliberate in mind.
Becky. Had to be. Snooping. And cleaning up after her mother?
Harry was no expert on police work but he could follow fresh tracks in clean snow close to the site of a shooting and pose the obvious question. Were there any other witnesses or an accomplice?
Harry’s face closed tight to hide a flush of shame and anger. Bud could be the one lying dead out there if…
And Emery, who looked like he could follow a butterfly through a tornado, just knelt over the tracks and slowly rotated his eyes with his weather-cured face showing no expression.
No one was connecting the dots strewn all around the countryside and things were getting tricky in Maston County. Harry resolved to keep his mouth shut until he got a big-city lawyer like Dorothy Houston’s dad to back him up.
Emery motioned Harry and Jerry back to the trail and they continued on to the lodge without speaking.
14
Laconic after-the-fact police traffic droned on car radios.
County Blazers and Highway Patrol cruisers jammed the horseshoe drive in front of the lodge. They’d taken Jesse and Becky away.
Cops. Watching him out of the corner of their eyes. A van showed up with CRIME LAB stenciled on the side. The guys in the van had the scene explained to them, then they watched Harry from the corners of their eyes as they talked to Emery. Jerry, ever-present and competent, helped load travel cases of forensic gear on a gurney rigged behind a snowmobile.
HUNTER’S MOON / 83
When somebody looked at him, Harry looked back with a hard glance that said, Fuck you, I didn’t do anything wrong. He had a metal whir in his chest and his eyes were a camera.
Deeper down, Sheriff Emery’s whiskey crept in him, silently, opening doors, and the walls of his memory started to move.
A snowbridge of the shock crumpled beneath his feet, his knees misfired and his hands went out for balance. Emery caught it from the corner of his eye.
His thoughts spiraled: Chris spun and fell. The smooth muscles at the base of Jesse’s spine trembled.
He could feel the electric charge of Chris’s life go from his body.
Weigh the corpse. He knew it would be lighter. Put the whole fucking world on a scale. Lighter. Minus one.
The snapshots of desire and death had a specific slippery, corrosive taste. Gotta brush my teeth. Now.
“I want to make a phone call,” he told Emery. The sheriff was talking to the state guys; he nodded and pointed to the lodge. A deputy lounged in the kitchen near the coffee pot. Harry asked to use the phone.
The deputy checked with Emery, who dismissed him with a wave of his hand and turned back to the BCA.
Two cops were going through the room where he’d slept and the contents of Harry’s duffel were neatly spread out on the bed, exactly where he’d left them. He asked if he could have his shaving kit. They handed it to him. In the bathroom, he scrubbed at his teeth, swigged mouthfuls of Listerine, gargled, and swallowed some in his haste.
It only managed to coat the taste. He grimaced in the mirror at the gummy stripes that were riven into his face.
The deputies came out of Chris’s room and emptied the contents of a shoebox on the table in the den and began to bag and tag three handguns and an assortment of pills.
Looked like a snub-nosed .38, an automatic, and a bigger revolver with a long barrel. Guessing. Didn’t know much about handguns.
No idea what the pills where. He was a couple generations removed from street pharmacology.
84 / CHUCK LOGAN
“What are you doing?” Harry challenged them.
“Maston gave us permission to search the place,” said one of the deputies politely.
The clock over the stove said 8:35. Over two hours since it went down. Still worrying his teeth with the toothbrush, Harry dialed Randall’s number in St. Paul.
“I’m in the shit,” Harry said simply when Dorothy answered.
“Lemme talk to Randall.”
Randall skipped the drama and went right to the relevant facts.
Had they given him his rights? Had he been charged with anything?
No. But he was on his way to the local cop shop with the sheriff.
Harry mentioned the medical examiner, who might have questions.
He finished by saying, “I need Dorothy’s father.”
Randall and Dorothy held a quick conference, then Dorothy came on the line.
“They’re giving you what’s called a ‘soft Miranda.’ If the local prosecutor rules justifiable homicide, you’re in good shape. If they decide something kinky went down, then it could get tricky. Either way, they might give it to a grand jury. It’s up to the prosecutor.
What Bud says is real important.”
“Bud told them I saved his life.”
“They’ll pull up your police files. They may want to take a closer look at you. I’ll call my dad and see if he knows somebody who can talk to the local prosecutor. Is there an airstrip up there?”
“Must be. Bud flies in and out all the time.” Some comfort.
Dorothy’s dad was a senior partner in an old St. Paul firm, also a bigshot in Democratic politics.
“We’ll grab a charter and be right up. And another thing. Look out for the press,” said Dorothy. “This kid you shot just tried to kill
