“I’m looking for her,” I said. “Are you Don?”
“Yeah, who’s asking?”
“I’m a friend of Grace’s daughter,” I said. “Please, don’t start with the food poisoning…”
“Come over here,” he said. He led me away from the men at the bar, toward one of the big windows. “These guys aren’t gonna be any help.”
“So you know Grace pretty well?”
“As well as anybody,” he said. He looked down for a moment, and rubbed the back of his neck. It made me think that maybe he did more for Grace than pour her drinks. “Now, tell me why you’re looking for her, because I’ve been kind of worried myself.”
“She hasn’t been around today?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“I take it that’s pretty unusual.”
“Yeah, you could say that. This is the first day I can remember that she hasn’t been in here.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Up the road a bit,” he said. “Within walking distance. Which is actually… well, let’s just say it’s a good thing on most nights. But anyway, I’ve called her a couple of times today.”
“Did you go over there?”
“Yeah, I did. At lunchtime. Nobody was there.”
“Her daughter was coming up to see her,” I said. “Last night.”
“You mean Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never met her,” he said. “I guess she wouldn’t bring her around here, eh? That would sorta ruin the story about the bad clams.”
I was about to smile for the first time that day when I happened to look over the man’s shoulder. Outside the window, at the gas station, a man was finishing up at the same pump I had just used myself. He was using his left hand. His right hand was in a cast.
It was Marty Grant.
“What the hell…” I said.
The bartender looked out the window. “What is it?”
“Over there, at the gas station.”
“You know that guy?”
I didn’t have time to answer him. I was already on my way out the door. When I got around to the gas station, Marty Grant had already pulled out. He was heading south. I ran back to my truck and fired it up, skidding my way out of the icy parking lot and onto the road.
You son of a bitch, I thought. What the hell are you doing up here? There’s no way it could be a coincidence. No way you’re up here doing a windshield job. There were probably a dozen auto glass shops in Soo Canada. Nobody would hire a man from Michigan to drive all the way up here.
I accelerated until I could finally see his truck ahead of me. I’m gonna run you off the road, Marty Grant. I’m gonna run you into the snow and then drag you out of that truck…
Wait a minute, Alex. Take a breath. Maybe I should go back, get Don the bartender, go find Grace’s house.
No. You heard the man. She’s not there.
God damn it, Grant, if you’ve done something to her. Or to Natalie. I swear to God…
I could feel my grip getting tighter on the steering wheel.
Okay, Alex. Take it easy. Just follow the man. Don’t do anything stupid. At least not yet. Just settle in and follow him.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This is one of the men who beat me half to death. This is the man who swung at me the hardest, so hard that when he missed he’d broken his hand on the bricks.
He’s the worst of them. He’s the biggest. He’s the strongest. God damn it to hell.
I kept following him. It wasn’t even an hour on the road, but it felt like an eternity. I stayed a quarter mile behind him, all the way back down the Queen’s Highway to Soo Canada. The sun was going down as he finally reached the bridge with me behind him. I didn’t think he had spotted me, even as I pulled in right behind him at the toll booth. He pulled out of the booth and onto the bridge. Another car got between us. When he hit customs, he took one lane and I took another.
I could see that Marty got a quick once-over and was already pulling out onto the road. Meanwhile, I had to wait while the car ahead of me got the full treatment. I was expecting the agent to come out and start ripping the door panels off the guy’s car, when finally he was given the all clear.
I pulled up, trying to calm myself down before I spoke to the agent. Looking like a homicidal maniac wouldn’t do me much good right now, even though that’s about how I felt. The agent asked me the usual questions. I gave him the right answers and was on my way, but by the time I hit I-75, Marty Grant was long gone. No matter, I thought. I knew exactly where to go.
I took the exit and headed downtown, past the Ojibway Hotel, and onto Spruce Street. It was dark now. I pulled into the driveway, right in front of the garage door. I didn’t see Marty’s truck there, but so what. I parked and got out. After everything that had happened, it was finally time for my own little showdown with the Grant family.
When I opened the door, I saw Michael Grant, the other brother, working on a car. I didn’t see Marty anywhere. Michael looked up from his job-it looked like he was doing a full cutout, scraping all the old adhesive out of a windshield bed before putting in the new glass-just in time to see me come through the doorway.
“McKnight?” he said. “What the hell is going on?”
“Where is he?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tell me where he is.”
“Where who is?”
“Your brother Marty,” I said. “I saw him in Batchawana Bay.”
“What?”
“He was up there. I just followed him back.”
“What was he doing up there?”
“That’s what I wanna know.”
“Look, McKnight…” He stepped away from the car and approached me. He still had the scraper in his right hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Tell me where to find your brother and I’ll leave.”
He shook his head slowly. “Ain’t gonna happen,” he said. “You need to turn around and get out of here right now.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were steady until he was about to make his move-the oldest “tell” in the book, the eyes getting wider just before your man pulls the trigger. Apparently, it works for glue scrapers, too. I ducked as he swung it at me and put my elbow into his ribs. That knocked the wind out of him just long enough for me to grab something myself.
There, a crowbar leaning against the garage wall. This will do nicely, Alex.
I picked it up just in time for him to come at me again. He took one look at it and dropped his scraper. “All right,” he said. He raised both hands. “All right. Just take it easy.”
I didn’t feel like taking it easy. Not yet. A new windshield was sitting on a special felt-padded stand, waiting to be fitted onto the car. I swung the crowbar and hit it dead center, sending a spray of glass pebbles all over the floor. What was left collapsed together into a heap, like some sort of folded-up modern sculpture.
He took that in stride. I had to give him credit. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said. “Put that thing down.”
“Where is he?”
“I said put it down.”
There was a box leaning against the wall, just the right shape and size. I was pretty sure I knew what was inside. I swung the crowbar and heard the muffled sound of more glass breaking.
