270 / CHUCK LOGAN
He exhaled. “She wanted to see if you’d try to hurt her. She’s acting screwy. You killed Chris and she says you’re the only one she can trust. It’s driving me nuts.”
Mitch walked to the window and pointed down the lake. “Lookit those dumb fuckers out in the dark,” he said.
Lights, coming up the east shore of the lake.
Mitch laughed. “They’ll never catch her. Not in these woods. She’s too damn smart for her own good, Mr. Griffin.”
“How’s that?”
“She saw it that morning. The whole thing between Mr. Maston and Chris. That’s why she’s hiding.”
“What did she see?”
Mitch’s muscular interior lines bunched with anger. “Didn’t tell me. There’s a lot she didn’t tell me. Just that she was there. She says no one can see it because it’s right in front of their noses.”
“That’s why Emery’s looking for her.”
Mitch heaved his shoulders. “Ask her. She’s waiting out past the cabins on the snowmobile trail. Give me five minutes with her first.”
Harry waited on the porch, dressed for the woods, impatiently smoking a cigarette, watching the darkening space between two of the cabins where Mitch had disappeared. Mitch came jogging back, his eyes tracking, wary.
“It ain’t good,” he said, biting his lip. “They posted some guys down on this end. The rest are making a drive along the lake. She says some of those idiots have guns, and the light’s going. She says it’s too tricky to come in right now.”
“So let’s get her outta there.”
“Don’t you think I tried,” said Mitch between clenched teeth, and the yardlight punched up the glaze of tears in his eyes. He glanced back toward the trees and shook his head. “She…likes it. Having everybody worry about her.”
Without further comment, Mitch jumped into his truck and drove away with his lights off.
HUNTER’S MOON / 271
Trying to flush her like a deer. “Bullshit,” said Harry. He ran into the lodge, grabbed the Remington pump, and jammed the .45
automatic in his waistband. With luck, she’d find a way to let him find her.
44
The bewitching hour, when the last light ink-stains into shadow and the deer start to move. It had gotten noticeably colder since Harry had begun searching.
“Becky! I know you’re out here, goddamnit.” His harsh whisper echoed with the crunch of snow under his boots. “I won’t let them get you—”
“You dummy, you got it upside down. You the one getting got.”
Her voice thrilled in the twilight.
Out there, pacing him silently in the snow. Where was she? He stopped and his breath came in bleached, shivering clouds.
“Can I trust you, Harry?”
“You wouldn’t send Mitch if you couldn’t.”
“I’m not sure. I’ve seen pictures of you—”
Pictures of me? Harry moved toward her voice. “Damnit girl, come on in. It’s freezing.”
“Scary, too. We’re not alone out here.” She stepped onto the trail, a lithe, wraith-haired shadow with one hip thrust out and the whites of her eyes hyper-alert in the failing light. She smelled dank with sweat and kerosene fumes and she trembled violently.
Harry removed his glove and touched her sooty face. Bits of leaves and a burr snagged in her stringy hair under a dirty wool cap. “You been out here too long. You’re suffering from exposure.”
“No shit,” she giggled. “I been exposed to a lot.” Then she arched, her whole body acute. “Shhh. Hear that? One of them’s right up there.”
“Who,” he whispered. “Emery? Cox?”
She stifled a nervous giggle and for the first time she 272 / CHUCK LOGAN
looked like a frightened trapped animal. “Mitch tell you?” she asked hesitantly.
“He said you were out there the morning of the shooting.”
She nodded her head vigorously and her teeth chattered. “What else did he tell you?” A branch snapped above them on the ridge.
She shuddered and started moving, ready to run. Harry followed.
“Look, I don’t have much time before I have to split,” she said.
“Tell Mom not to take the money. It’s not too late if she stops the divorce.” She was scared stiff, freezing, talking crazy.
“Becky, let me take you to Saint Paul, we’ll talk to some real cops.”
“No. We have to do it my way or it won’t work.”
“Fuck,” whispered Harry. “You think this is fun.”
Her teeth flashed in her grimy match-girl face. They both cocked their ears as footsteps punched through the frozen snow up the slope. Lights bobbed in the trees up ahead. Deepening shadows closed in. The trail cut a hazy gray arc.
He seized her arm. “You’re coming with me. I can protect you.”
“No one can protect me the way it is now.”
“’Nuff of this shit.” Harry tightened his grip, balanced the shotgun in his right hand, thumb off the safety.
“No way. Ow!” she protested. No longer whispering. Their voices rang in the dark. “They’ll catch us. They’ll ask me…questions. My dad would kill me if—”
The steps above them stopped. A blubbery whistling sound.
“What the hell…” When he looked up, she slipped from his grasp and sprinted down the trail.
The blowing came louder.
“Goddamnit, Becky…” Harry ran after her.
Crack-beoww!!! A rifle shot cracked. High.
“Search party my ass!” he bellowed, ducking, turning to the ridge.
Crack! Crack! The third shot clipped a piece of branch. Splinters rattled on his parka. But he fixed on the muzzle HUNTER’S MOON / 273
flash. See you, motherfucker. Extreme range for the shotgun, up the slope. Harry aimed high. Scare ’em off. The 12 gauge boomed. A load of buckshot wapped through the upper branches where the af-tershadow of the muzzle flash sparkled out. He crashed into the underbrush, wracking the pump action. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Marching fire. Still keeping it high. In the intervals between the shots he heard the buckshot thunk into trees, slap through the brush.
A scream echoed down to him. Fear. Not of pain. Harry dropped the shotgun, yanked out the pistol, and charged up the slope, smashing through brush, chasing the tripping footfalls ahead of him.
“Get you, you fucker!” Could see him now, a dumpy shadow waddling against a wall of snow. Pistol upraised, Harry ran
