Jerry clamped the shackle. They jumped back, their breath coming in long torn clouds.
“What’s…going…on?” Jerry demanded.
“Police brutality,” gasped Cox with a predatory grin, his pepper-fog eyes watering. “Like I said on the phone. Emery was following him. Jumped out from behind a tree and sucker punched him. Saw it all coming down the road.” Cox cleared his throat, snuffled, and spit out a wad of bloody mucus. “Then he kicked him in the balls.
When he was down. It was very unsheriff-like.”
“Kill you motherfuckers.” Emery gasped in a strangled growl. On his knees, struggling for breath, eyes black and wild. His body made a crazy jig, raging against the cuffs.
“Jesus, Larry.” Jerry winced and looked away. He exhaled and cursed: “Jesse.”
Emery lowered his eyes.
“Yeah,” said Jerry, shaking his head, “Jesse.”
Harry had trouble seeing. His head was cased in a tight Norman helmet with a thick flange of swelling pain welded for a nose. A cold ring radiated inside his neck where pain thawed into fiery spasms.
He visualized vertebrae fused in a nerve-grinding mangle. With sat-isfaction, he determined that between them, he and Cox had blacked both of Emery’s eyes and given him a hell of lumpy mouse on his right cheek.
300 / CHUCK LOGAN
“You all right, Griffin?” asked Jerry.
“Fuck you and your sister,” spat Harry.
“This weather, you were lucky Cox called. Said you were turned around in the swamp and that Larry might be after you. We had some guys out looking for Becky.” Jerry paused to catch his breath.
“Shifted the search this way.”
“You gotta do something with him before he hurts somebody,”
said Cox.
“I know, I know,” muttered Jerry. “Jesus, what a fuckin’ week.
Okay. Larry? You hear me? We’re gonna put you in the car.”
Emery nodded sullenly. Head bent, his eyes fixed on the trampled blood-sprinkled snow.
“C’mon, help me get him in, before the rest of the guys get here,”
said Jerry.
Emery stood up, shook off Jerry’s hand, and stumbled to the Blazer. Jerry opened the passenger door. Emery got in. Jerry pulled the seat belt over his cuffed hands, securing him. “We’ll go like this till I get you home. Then I’ll get you cleaned up,” Jerry’s voice strove for calm.
“Wait a minute. Aren’t you gonna lock him up?” Harry said.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job. Way I see it, you gave this man a lot of provocation. Both of you!” Jerry said in a level voice.
Cox rummaged at the side of the road. Found Emery’s deer rifle, wracked the bolt, unloading it, cleared it, and handed it to Jerry.
“Let it go, Griffin,” cautioned Cox.
“You kidding? With Maston coming up here to see her? You want that crazy sonofabitch walking around?”
“We’ll deal with it, okay?” said Jerry. He picked up his radio handset and briskly explained that they’d found the lost guy. He didn’t mention anything about the scene with Emery and signed off.
“Now, you guys need a ride?”
“Fuck that,” said Harry. Cox shook his head.
“Okay, that’s it.” Jerry closed the door. Emery hunched in the seat, staring straight ahead. Jerry got behind the wheel, put the Blazer in gear, and drove away.
HUNTER’S MOON / 301
Harry trembled and watched the taillights recede. “He’s gonna let the sucker go. Jesus.”
Cox gave a hollow laugh, stooped, retrieved Harry’s rifle, and squinted along the shattered stock. “This puppy’s fucked unless you got crooked bullets. Maston might have a few of those, but I don’t think you do.” He tossed the rifle into the brush.
“How’d you happen to be here?” asked Harry.
Cox shrugged. “Found you guys’ tracks by the trailer, doubled back, Emery had done the same, was watching you in there with Jesse. He followed you when you came out. Lost your tracks in the swamp when the storm whipped up. I called Jerry.”
So something was out there. Not the Windigo. Men were still the scariest thing in the forest.
Cox shook his head. “Emery’s right, you know. She’s off her fuckin’ rocker since Chris—”
“Do we know each other, Cox?”
Spooky laugh. “You might say we’re connected.”
“You and Ginny…I thought you were on the outs, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’ve been keeping tabs on me together.”
Cox grinned. “She got a nice way of checking a fella out, don’t she?”
Harry shivered and cautiously dabbed at the elbow that was growing between his eyes. “Fuckin’ Emery likes to hit.”
Cox nodded. “Kind of guy who’ll never quit. Hate people like that.” Then he grinned. “I’m like that.”
“He’s a violent sonofabitch.”
“We all are,” Cox said. “That’s why we’re here. The lives we lived brought us together.” He bent down and grabbed a handful of snow, packed it, and pressed it against Harry’s swollen nose. “You best hold that there for a while for the swelling. Get to the hospital. At least slap some tape on it.” While Harry adjusted the icepack, Cox shook two cigarettes from a pack and handed one to Harry. He popped a lighter and his gaunt face flared in the flame, warted, and scarred.
302 / CHUCK LOGAN
Harry pressed. “What went down at the lodge last month, when Jesse called the cops? C’mon, man. You were there.”
Cox cast his eyes at the snow-blurred woods. “I was there all right.” He chuckled and slapped Harry on the shoulder. “Never get greedy, troop, it’ll fuck up your life.”
“You’re not a whole lot of help, Cox.”
“Sin loy. Sorry ’bout that.” Cox grinned enigmatically. “Kinda like being out at night with the gooks, ain’t it? Don’t know who’s really next to you till it’s too late.”
He picked up his rifle and nodded toward his truck. “Run you home?”
“I suppose so,” said Harry resignedly. His nose was beginning to throb. He threw down his cigarette and headed for the passenger side.
As the vehicle careened down the snow-clogged road, Harry
