“He remembers you,” I said. “From when you were kids, I guess.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I was looking for you.”
“I figured you’d get to that part.”
“It’s like this, Alex… Can I call you Alex?”
“Of course.”
“What I’m wondering is, do you happen to be free at the moment? I mean, can I hire you?”
“Hire me?” I said. “Wait a minute. I’m not really a private investigator anymore. I’m not sure I ever was one.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Another long story.”
“Oh,” she said. As tired as she already looked, this seemed to take a little more steam out of her. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
“Actually,” I said, “I was just talking to a real private investigator this afternoon. I promised him I’d send any business I got his way. Do you want me to call him?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to anybody else. Look, I’m sorry, this was a mistake. Just forget it.” She started to get up.
“Dorothy, sit down,” I said. “Just tell me what’s going on. Why did you come all the way out here? Just because you heard I was a private investigator?”
She picked up her glass of water, rattling the ice. She took a long drink and then put the glass back on the table. “All right, this is going to sound crazy, okay?”
“Go ahead.”
“I was at the game last night,” she said: “I saw what you did to Lonnie.”
“Bruckman? You were with him?” It was hard to imagine, after all he had said about Indians.
“Yes,” she said. “He makes me go to all his games.”
“It was just a league game,” I said. “A bunch of old guys playing hockey because they miss the good old days. All I did was block a couple of his shots.”
“You don’t know what that does to him,” she said. “You stopped him cold. Then in the bar afterwards, the way you stood up to him. I was listening, Alex. We all were. You made him look bad.”
“Dorothy, this is really-”
“You don’t know him, Alex, Do you have any idea how mad you made him? He couldn’t stop talking about it. All night long. He didn’t sleep.”
“Of course he didn’t sleep,” I said. “He was too high.”
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to,” I said. “Does he do that a lot?”
“Yes,” she said. She looked at the fireplace. The door opened and more snowmobilers came into the bar, stomping their boots.
“What’s going on?” I said. “Are you in trouble? Did he-”
“Did he what? Did he beat me? Is that why you think I’m here? Because I need you to protect me?” She looked back up at me. I could see the reflection from the flames in the fireplace in her eyes.
“I’m just asking,” I said. “Because if he did-”
“Then I should go to a shelter for battered women and leave you alone.”
“Do you want me to help you or not?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“What do you want me to do? Do you have someplace to go?”
“Not really,” she said. “Maybe downstate. I have some friends.”
“What about the reservation?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not welcome there. My parents and I…” She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just shook her head. “No, not there.”
“Let’s say I really was a private investigator,” I said. “I mean, let’s say I really wanted to be one. What would you want me to do?”
“I would hire you…,” she said, and then she stopped. “I can trust you, can’t I? I really can?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I believe that,” she said. “I don’t know why I believe that, but I do.”
“What would you hire me to do, Dorothy?”
“I would hire you to help me get away,” she said. “That’s all. Just help me get away. Before he finds me.”
“You think he’ll come after you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I know he will. He’ll come after me. And if he finds me he’ll kill me.”
“God, it’s cold,” she said. The snow was coming down hard, the flakes already joined together in the air like falling paper dolls.
She kept her white bag slung over her shoulder, after refusing to let me carry it. “You need a warmer coat,” I said. “Here, take mine.”
“Don’t even try it,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“My truck’s over here.” The parking lot was full of snowmobiles and trailers. “I’ll get the heater going.”
She stopped and looked up into the darkness. “There’s a full moon tonight.”
“What moon?” I said. “I haven’t seen the sky in two months.”
“I can feel it,” she said. “Can’t you feel it?”
I opened the passenger side door for her. “Sorry about the missing window,” I said. I got in my side, turned the key, cranked on the heat.
“You don’t feel the moon, do you?” she said.
“No,” I said. “Sorry.”
“It’s the wolf moon, you know. The first full moon of the year.”
“This will heat up in a minute,” I said. “I should keep a blanket in here.”
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“No,” I said. I stopped fooling with the heater and looked right at her so she would know I was telling her the truth. “I’ve seen crazy. Believe me.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Another long story.”
“Yes.”
“And this window,” she said, tapping the plastic.
“Another long story,” I said.
She shifted the bag in her lap. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I had a cancellation,” I said. “The cabin is empty anyway.”
“I really appreciate it,” she said. “I just have to sleep for a few hours. Then I’ll be able to think straight.”
I pulled the truck out of the parking lot, headed north up the main road. There’s a place not far up the road where the trees break and you can see all the way across the bay. Just a few weeks ago we would have seen the freighters docked outside the locks, getting their last runs in before the freeze, waiting for the right weather to make their run to Duluth. But tonight it was so dark we could barely see the ice.
“Are you sure you can’t feel that wolf moon?” she said. She was lying back against the seat. Her voice was a low murmur that undercut the sound of the wind. The effect was hypnotic.
“I wouldn’t know how to feel it,” I said.
“You’ve forgotten. Your ancestors knew how.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You think it’s an Indian thing, don’t you?” she said. “Having a name for the moon.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” she said. “It’s Celtic mythology. I was into all that stuff when I was growing up. Pagan rituals, witchcraft, tarot cards. Anything but Indian stuff. I didn’t want to be an Indian.”
The snow was rushing into the headlights. It made it seem like we were moving very fast.
“It’s your moon, Alex. Mr. McKnight from the Scottish highlands. The wolf moon belongs to you, not to
