Harry walked close enough to hear snatches of conversation. Search party. For Becky.
Harry had just got the Jeep in gear when he saw Jay Cox’s blue truck drive by with Ginny Hakala sitting in the passenger seat. The truck made a right turn at the north end of town and drove out the jetty toward the Lutheran church. Harry followed it.
Cox went by the church and stopped in front of the Historical Society. He and Ginny each took a bag of groceries from the cab and carried them up the steps. The lady with the ramrod posture, the one Harry’d seen raise the flag the morning of the funeral, met them. She opened the door and Cox and Ginny carried the groceries inside. Then they came back out on the porch and Cox bent his head, listening, while the woman talked to them. Cox bobbed his head. She reached up and patted his scarred cheek. Ginny saw Harry first. She tugged on Cox’s sleeve.
Harry tensed behind the wheel.
Jay Cox did the strangest thing. He smiled at Harry. A simple straight smile. Then he raised his right hand and split the fingers into a peace sign.
Stunned and wary, Harry coiled in his seat as Cox ambled over to the Jeep.
“Owe you an apology, man,” said Cox, offering his knobby hand.
248 / CHUCK LOGAN
“I don’t get it, Cox,” said Harry, accepting the handshake.
“You ain’t supposed to, troop. Life is strange.”
41
Karson’s station wagon was parked in the Trinity Lutheran Church lot.
It was a time for caution. Too many jack-in-the-boxes were popping out of the woodwork in Stanley, Minnesota. Not a time to rush in.
Harry took the steps two at a time, shoved open the church doors, and entered a Germanic thicket of oak pews, pulpit, beams, and a choir loft. Stairs in the small lobby led to a basement common room.
Karson sat, head bent, pen busy at a desk in a glass-partitioned office thinly ruled with Levelor blinds. A secretary guarded his office door from behind a typewriter and telephone. Harry pointed at Karson.
“Do you have an appointment?” she inquired with enough blood rushing to her face that Harry figured she was hip to who he was.
“It’s all right,” said Harry, opening the door without knocking.
Karson’s eyes snapped up and he dropped his pen.
Harry tossed the manila envelope onto the desk. Karson saw his secretary talking urgently on the phone. Reassured, he opened the folder, looked at the page, folded it, and put it back. His eyes practically cracked the lenses on his horn-rims with the strain of keeping his face expressionless.
“Somebody nailed that to Maston’s door last night like Martin Luther nailed his edict to the cathedral,” said Harry.
“Not here, not now,” said Karson in a calm voice.
Harry plopped down into a deep cushioned chair in front of the desk. Comfy chair, comfy office. He had to look real hard among the piled bookcases, past the Native American pottery and Inuit stone carving to find a solitary picture of Jesus.
HUNTER’S MOON / 249
Karson rose from his chair and closed the blinds. He returned, lit a Winston, and flipped on a Norelco clean-air machine next to his desk. “You have a very invasive style, Harry,” he said.
“You can’t have it both ways, Don. Either you keep confidences and let it all lay or you point fingers.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Talked to your buddy Talme. Only straight guy I’ve met up here.”
He emphasized the word “straight.” Harry tapped the envelope.
“Why me? I might jump to some conclusions. That what you want?
Me going off the deep end because Emery and you have this feud?”
“I’ll deny having this conversation,” said Karson.
“And here I thought you and me had a dialogue going.” Harry shook his head. “So the squeeze is on, huh?” Harry’s eyes perused the bookcases behind the desk and stopped at a framed photograph on the bookcase behind Karson’s chair. He stood up, went behind the desk, and scrutinized the picture. “Well, no shit.” Karson and Talme stood arm in arm with Tad Clark, the men’s guru. Bud’s place in the background draped in summer maples.
Karson kept his eyes fixed on the wall clock. Harry removed the picture from the bookcase and dropped it on Karson’s desk. “The men’s movement?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Sure I would. I was in a big men’s group, cut my hair short, wore green all the time, slept in the woods…”
Voices out by the receptionist’s desk. The door opened. Karson’s face relaxed.
The creak of cold leather announced Jerry Hakala. “Everything all right, Don?”
“I was just asking Griffin to leave,” said Karson.
“I’m a little worried about Don here, Jerry. I think somebody cut out his tongue,” said Harry amiably.
“He, uh, bothering you?” Jerry asked Karson.
“I just want him to leave.”
Jerry tapped Harry on the shoulder. “Why don’t you and 250 / CHUCK LOGAN
me step outside?” Harry picked up the envelope, winked at Karson, and followed Jerry out of the church into the parking lot. “Leave him be, Griffin, he don’t need encouragement spreading poison about Larry.” The young cop grinned and sunshine traced a faint webbing of scar tissue around his chin and eyebrows where he’d been massaged with pro hockey sticks.
Harry looked around. “Where’d you put Emery? In day care?”
Jerry smiled patiently and Harry pushed it. “I met your sister. She was just next door with Cox. Looks like they’re back together. When exactly did they break up?”
Jerry shifted his stance and cocked his head.
“If I’m such a pain in the ass, how come you guys let me hang around?” Harry asked.
“Just keep your nose clean and drive the speed limit, Griffin. Try not to annoy people.”
“Saw you in front of the police station giving a speech,” Harry persisted.
Jerry smiled, showing expensive bridgework. More hockey sticks.
“Becky Deucette hasn’t come home. Sheriff’s not too worried, but Uncle Mike thought it was time to organize a search.”
“Squared-away cop like you, doesn’t it bother you working for a sheriff who’s out hunting all the time, who smells like a bar
