Randall knew a lot of people. He had access to national databanks.
Government computers. Dorothy knew some cops in Minneapolis and St. Paul from her days as a reporter.
The desk drawers were empty except for envelopes and the Snowshoe Lodge letterhead and some floppy disks.
He switched on the IBM computer. Simple office software. He went through the floppies, opening files. Text for brochures. Correspondence. Projected rates for lodging and fishing parties. He turned off the computer and flipped on the FM tuner and spent an hour cleaning up the main room: put the stepladder out on the front porch, swept up the pile of sawdust, retacked the bearskin, and brought in some kindling from the pile on the porch.
Cleaning out the fireplace, he found a fried can of charcoal starter among the ashes. A thick plume of soot disfigured the mantle from where they’d burned the Goyas and the wall artifacts on the hearth.
Tilted on the endirons, a ferocious eye and gaping jaws leered from an unburned portion of the print that had hung in Chris’s room.
Harry built a fire and watched the flames consume the mad cannibal stare.
After a shower, he heated a can of Hormel chili from the cupboard and ate it with saltines.
He laid out his suit, flicked some lint from the jacket, and touched the divorce papers in the pocket. The new dress-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his shoes a little scuffed, but they’d do.
166 / CHUCK LOGAN
He poked at the fire and tried to figure Cox. The guy had a rope-toughness you don’t see on a white man unless he’s done serious jail time or seen a lot of combat, but Cox had acted with restraint.
He had been prepared to see Cox as Jesse’s blunt instrument. Now he seemed more the damaged tool.
Not afraid of you? Same line Chris had used the night before it happened. Lot of people shook up in the wake of the shooting.
Becky. Karson. Cox. Harry turned off the lamps and stared at the fire. What would Randall do in this situation?
Hell, Randall wouldn’t get into this scene in the first place.
White pencils of light flashed through the darkened lodge, threaded the woods. Snowmobiles, on the trail around the lake.
He jumped when the phone jangled.
Karson’s voice sounded like he’d been holding his breath since Harry hung up in the liquor store. “Ginny Hakala works at the Timber Cruiser Cafe. She used to go out with Cox.” He hung up.
Harry made a note of the name and cautioned himself. Take it one step at a time. He glanced at the whiskey bottle that sat on the dining room table.
Better make that one drink at a time.
Didn’t need it now. Would in the morning though. A couple shots to light the fuse.
He built up the fire, brought sheets, quilts and pillows, and made the bed. He checked the shotgun safety and placed it next to him on the mattress. The last cigarette of the day made an arc of sparks into the fireplace and Harry closed his eyes and exhaled, If I should die before I wake…
He drew up his knees and crossed his arms rigidly across his chest in the hopeful foxhole posture that attempted to cover his vital parts.
HUNTER’S MOON / 167
29
On Tuesday morning fog lay thick on Maston County.
The kind of day Randall used to call Hitler weather.
Harry meditated in reverse. Not to relax. To twist himself tight.
One by one, he detached the wires to faith, hope, and charity.
His plan was direct. Stir up the funeral with the divorce papers and watch the faces. The one with Freon in his veins, the one who had controlled Chris, might show himself—or herself. Look for the one who cracked first and go after him and get him to talk.
Get under the lie a few layers, then go back to Hakala and remind him that he had skipped impaneling a grand jury for self-serving reasons. Getting Bud in the hospital was the only deal Harry’d made.
So fuck a bunch of politicians.
Hell, man, you just want to see her.
He pushed the unsettling thought aside. It all came down to Jesse and whose bed she was rising from on this gloomy morning. She was the only one with the strength of will to plan cold-blooded murder for money…and behind her loomed the shadow of Larry Emery. They’d be together today to bury their trigger-happy son.
He padded to the bathroom, undressed, and twirled the nozzle on the shower faucet. When the water turned icy he braced both palms against the shower tile and counted to a hundred.
So screw their funeral.
Stark fluorescent light bounced off the tile and painted the scabs on his face livid purple in the mirror. As he shaved, he mentally downshifted. Have to operate in one forward gear. No second thoughts.
They started it. They weren’t the only ones who could play rough.
He sagged, splashed cold water on his face to clean off the lather, and inspected himself. Once he could have done it 168 / CHUCK LOGAN
without remorse. But then he was young and didn’t feel things.
Whole town might be there. Jesse, Emery, Cox, and Hakala for sure. Karson. Becky. Be walking across their graves. Their history.
He dressed, remembering Emery’s cold parting promise. “We’ll meet again, motherfucker.” His fingers shook as he tried to knot his tie and he stared at his shivering hands.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t kid himself about why he needed a drink. Minnesota Harry couldn’t do it. Detroit Harry could.
The bottle and the empty glass waited on the dining room table.
You don’t see this through you’ll be carrying that dead kid on your back as a question mark your whole goddamn life. He poured the glass full and let it run down his throat and into his caged places.
Steady now, with a Jack Daniel’s snap, crackle, and pop in his fingertips, the tie flew into place. He transferred the divorce papers into the inside pocket of his jacket.
