Kris Kristofferson warbled in his whiskey-cured, bedroom voice about ribbons and hair falling down and again, he felt her, fire and ice in the moonlight, double-crossing her legs over an intersection of deceit and maybe murder. Harry stepped on the gas.
By late afternoon he was past Duluth. On North 61, orange men left their pickups and plodded up logging trails with rifles. Twilight netted the black pines with creeping shadows and a diamond-shaped yellow sign danced in his headlights with the imprint of a leaping white-tailed buck. He crossed into Maston County and a tingle of fear enhanced the dark. Sheriff Larry Emery owned this night.
But crossing that line clarified his unruly exit from St. Paul. He knew for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—exactly what he was doing. He had killed a sixteen-year-old boy, and while the official version of events might satisfy the local politicians, it didn’t square with his conscience. He wasn’t leaving Maston County until he knew why Chris pointed that gun. Period.
He passed a clapboard church with a nativity scene arranged in the snow. Six-foot plastic camels were planted under strings of gaudy Christmas lights with three wise men, and baby Jesus was some kid’s doll in a bale of hay. Those dudes are lost, he thought—Mediterranean desert nomads making their wish against the black Ojibway forest. Wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet.
A stand of shadowy red oaks hitchhiked among the pines and Harry grinned. He’d been raised by Germans, his mother’s people.
Druids, under the Protestant shellac. Had learned superstitions from his grandmother. The Christmas tree was put up the night before Christmas. Bad luck to start the symbolism too early.
160 / CHUCK LOGAN
If only the trees out there that morning could talk. You could try and try and you’d never understand all the detail in a tree, all the gnarls and turns and subtlety of foliage.
The insides of people were like trees. You could never see it all.
Harry drove toward the lights of Stanley, turned off the highway, and made a run down Main Street. Like bad omens, a festive crepe of red and green Christmas decorations draped the street and the lights burned in the Camp Funeral Home.
He rolled down the window and let the pure oxygen suck the city from his lungs. Not even the murmur of Superior broke the vast snow quiet, and soft woodsmoke chains drifted up and moored the little town to the icy northern stars. And somebody in this peaceful illusion had a reason, and enough influence, to get Chris Deucette to pull that trigger? Emery, out of jealousy? Jesse certainly, for the money. But Jay Cox was the wild card. Where did he fit?
He pulled in back of City Hall and parked in front of the liquor store. A trio of Indian winos stamped their feet next to the door.
Going in, Harry threw them a snappy fraternal salute.
He bought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, then went to the pay phone next to the entrance, dug in his wallet, found Reverend Karson’s card, and called the residence number.
A woman answered. “Uh, he’s meeting with some people,” she said.
“This is Harry Griffin. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Subdued conversation carried over the connection. “Harry,” said Karson, “this is bad timing. I’m preparing a funeral service. Where are you?”
“I’ll be staying out at Maston’s lodge for a while.”
“I see—”
“I need a favor, padre.”
“Uh, let me take this in the basement on another line,” said Karson.
A minute later, Karson’s voice came back on. “Martha, would you hang up the upstairs phone, please.”
HUNTER’S MOON / 161
“Martha your wife?” asked Harry.
“We are used to dealing in confidences in this house. My wife is part of my ministry in that respect.” He paused. “Where’s Bud?”
“Tucked away in a CD ward in the city.”
“You shouldn’t be up here.”
“Why? You said I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Karson exhaled. “What do you want, Harry?”
“I want to know about Jay Cox. I need his birthday and Social Security number—”
“Is this for a story? The newspaper?” Karson’s apprehensive voice turned curious.
“No, no. Just me. I’m on vacation, making sure nobody rips off Maston’s house.”
“Vacation? My God. Uh, I know Cox. Not well—”
“He’s a real sweetheart, isn’t he?”
“Look, I don’t think I should say anything directly about Cox.”
“Hey, padre. I thought you were the local good guy.”
Silence on the line.
Harry tried again. “I wouldn’t want you to say anything directly.
Indirectly would be fine.”
More silence. “After the funeral, Harry,” said Karson. He hung up the phone.
The preacher was scared.
28
Harry wheeled into the lodge drive and Jay Cox froze in the headlights, stooped under the weight of an outboard motor he was lifting into the back of his truck. Harry left the brights on and got out.
“Put it down and clear off the property!”
Cox’s face was a fistful of witch doctor bones in the harsh glare.
Watch yourself. They line up right and you’re dead, brother.
“Who’re you? Maston’s idea of a joke?” Cox grimaced as 162 / CHUCK LOGAN
he heaved the motor into the bed of the truck and bent down for a can of gas. “She talked to a lawyer. She’s got a right to half of everything new in that pole barn.”
“Get her lawyer to convince a judge. Till then, everything stays.”
They started to circle and Harry tried to keep the lights at his back, in Cox’s face. Basic math. Cox went around six-one and two hundred pounds. An inch and twenty pounds on Harry. A real hard twenty pounds.
Box him, wear him out. Who was he kidding? He hadn’t been in a real fight for twenty years. Cox was a brawler who’d close and break him in his powerful hands. Old street wisdom. Crazy covers tough. Harry looked around for an equalizer as their breath came in taut, white jets.
Cox bared his teeth. “Maston thinks he’s pretty smart, bringing you up here. You threw me for a minute
