Read Cold Hunter's Moon Online
Authors: K. C. Greenlief
Cold Hunter's Moon (24 page)
NOVEMBER 27âSWENSON
Lacey fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow and did not wake up until her alarm went off. She sat up and groaned in pain as her ribs rebelled. She willed herself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. She glanced in the mirror and was gratified to see that most of the swelling was gone from her lip. She stood under the shower, and just as the hot water turned lukewarm, she felt her rib cage begin to loosen up.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting at the bar in the kitchen. Although she wasn't hungry, she forced herself to eat some toast and drink a glass of orange juice while she waited for the coffee to brew. She turned around when she heard Lark trotting down the stairs.
“Feeling better?” he asked, pouring them both a cup of coffee.
“Yep.”
“Good thing,” Lark said, popping a couple slices of bread in the toaster. “I'd hate to think I suffered though a cold shower for nothing.”
“I'm sorry. That I didn't even think about you this morning shows how whacked out I must be.”
“Didn't you sleep well?” he asked with concern as he slathered his toast with grape jam.
“So well I don't think I even moved.”
“It's gonna be a long day. You sure you're up to it?” He studied her lip as he sipped his coffee.
“I wouldn't miss it,” she said, guarding her side as she stood up. “Besides, if I sleep any more I'm in danger of turning into Rip Van Winkle.”
When Lark realized it was quarter after seven, they hustled out to the Jeep. After a quick stop at the station, they were on the road to Rhinelander. The weather, while disappointing, was consistent. Snow was pelting down. From the look of the roads, it had been snowing for quite a while. They passed a salt truck and then slowed down to get around a road grader pushing brown-tinted drifts of snow to the berm. A few miles down the road they passed a convoy of dump trucks loaded with snow.
“At the rate we're going, it won't be melted by next winter,” Lark said as they passed the huge truck.
“Such an optimist,” she said as she answered the car phone.
It was Joel, who gave them an update from the University police. They had confirmed the alibis for Sandi and Michael Waltner and were faxing their reports to Big Oak and Wausau.
Lark and Lacey arrived at the clinic in Rhinelander on time and were ushered into a conference room. They warmed themselves with steaming mugs of sludgy coffee.
Ron arrived at 11:30, accompanied by a nurse who could double for Mrs. Claus. Santa's wife turned out to be a very jolly Mrs. Krejewski, who offered to stay for the interview. Ron politely declined. Before she left, she patted him on the back to get his attention.
“What?” Ron asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. Lark and Lacey were surprised to see that he was smiling.
“You remember what your mama told you and you remember what we talked about.” Although she was smiling, her voice was as commanding as a four-star general.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You call me if you need anything.” She gestured at a black rotary phone without any numbers on it.
“Yes, ma'am,” Ron repeated.
“All you have to do is pick it up and I'll be right in here.” She looked around the room, her cheerful glance taking each one of them in. She patted Ron on the shoulder again. “Now you behave and tell the truth.”
Everyone took their seats. Ron pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked Lacey, gesturing with the crumpled pack.
“Not at all,” she said, marveling at the change in him.
Now that his hair was clean and neatly combed, Lacey could tell that it was a rich brown color. It even looked like it had been trimmed. His straggly mustache was gone and his teeth looked like they had been professionally cleaned. The sickly yellow, bloodshot look she'd previously seen in his eyes was gone. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt tucked into worn but clean blue jeans that hung down over his tennis shoes.
“How have you been?” Lark asked, watching him try to steady his hands so he could light up.
“It's really tough,” he said, in between drags on his cigarette. “I'd take a drink right now if you offered me one.”
“At least you're honest,” Lacey said, shocked at the hungry look in his eyes.
“I'm a third-generation drunk,” he said, puffing on his Marlboro. “My grandfather died of cirrhosis of the liver in his fifties. I don't even remember him.”
“I'm so sorry,” Lacey murmured.
Ron flicked his eyes over her, trying to gauge her sincerity. “My dad's been a drunk for as long as I can remember.”
“They say alcoholism can be genetic,” Lark said, regretting it the minute he saw the despair cross Ron's face.
“No shit, man.” Ron leaned over towards Lark, jabbing himself in the chest. “Look at me, take a good look at me,” he yelled.
“Treatment can help,” Lacey said.
“I've been treated before and so has my dad. It's never successful. We get sick of AA and crawl right back in the bottle.” He stubbed out his cigarette butt.
“What are you going to do this time?” Lark asked, ignoring the emotional vibes emanating from Lacey and Ron.
“I'm doing thirty days here. I'll go back to daily AA and I'm going to take Antabuse,” he said, staring down at the table.
“What's Antabuse?” Lacey asked.
“A drug that makes you sick as hell if you take it and drink. Mom says I'm a mean drunk. I guess I slapped her twice last week when she tried to get me to stop. I don't remember it.” His trembling hand reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.
“Did you hurt her?” Lacey asked, her voice no longer sympathetic.
“She's got a black eye, says I gave it to her,” he said, his voice hardening. “Scared the shit out of me that I could do that to her and not remember it.”
“You ever get into fights when you're drinking?” Lark asked.
Ron took a deep drag on his cigarette and shot a plume of smoke upwards, watching it climb to the ceiling and dissipate.
“Did you ⦔
“I heard you the first time.” He cocked his head to give Lark a sharp look. “I've been in fights with guys before but I've never hit a woman.”
“You're sure about that?” Lark asked, staring into his face.
“Yep,”
“How can you be sure when you don't remember hitting your mom?” Lacey asked.
“I've never been this bad before. This is a new goddamn low,” he yelled.
The door swung open and Mrs. Krejewski leaned in. “Ron, I could swear someone called me. You need something?”
“No, sorry,” he replied, slouching down in his chair.
“Don't you worry. The next time you holler I'll be right in.” She pointed her finger at him as she closed the door.
“Old fucking battle-ax,” he said over his shoulder, his voice raised.
“That's quite enough.” A voice as cold as steel drifted through the door. “You're working yourself up to loss of privileges. Calm down.”
“You said you've never been this bad before,” Lark said, trying to get him back on track.
“I've passed out before, but never lost blocks of time like last week.”
“Where were you the weekend before Thanksgiving?”
“Drunk,” he said, his eyes flicking back and forth between Lark and Lacey.
“Drunk where?” Lark asked.
Ron stubbed out his cigarette. “Mom told me there was another body found at Wazowski's. A college girl, Terry somebody. I didn't know her.”
“I didn't ask you that,” Lark said with deliberate patience. “Where were you the weekend before Thanksgiving?”
“I'm not sure.”
“What do you mean you're not sure?”
“Goddammit,” Ron said, slamming his free hand down on the table. “Dad and I went hunting Saturday. We drank all day. I don't remember Saturday or much of Sunday.”
“Where'd you hunt?” Lacey asked.
“We got up before dawn and drove to the Chequamegon State Forest around Clam Lake.”
“When did you leave there?” Lacey asked, watching him light up again.
“I don't remember.”
“Who was driving?” she asked.
“Dad.”
“Did you stay overnight or sleep at home?”
“I got up at home on Sunday morning.”
“What did you do Sunday?” Lark asked.
“We went hunting up around Grand View, in the Chequamegon.”
“Do you remember when you got home Sunday?” Lacey asked.
“I couldn't tell you.”
“What about Monday?” she asked, scribbling on her notepad.
“Pretty much the same as Sunday. We got up, ate, and went hunting. This time out by Big Oak Lake, but not at Wazowski's.”
“Do you own any snowmobiles?” Lark asked, interrupting Lacey's line of questioning.
“Two of them. What's that got to do with this?” he asked, glancing at Lark.
“Someone shot out a couple of windows at the Ransons'. Ann Ranson also had her Explorer shot at. They also shot at my house.” Lark didn't take his eyes off Ron's face.
“Sounds like hunting accidents.”
“Somebody did all three on a snowmobile at night,” Lark said.
“The trails aren't open yet.”
“That doesn't seem to matter to this guy. Funny thing, he chain smokes Marlboros,” Lark said, watching him for a reaction.
Ron lit a new cigarette with the butt from his spent one. “I got here Thursday night.”
“First shooting happened early Thursday morning,” Lark said.
“It wasn't me.”
“Do you remember where you were Thursday morning?” Lark asked.
“At home. I was at home drinking.”
“You sure about that?”
“Ask my mom. She'll vouch for that. So will my dad.”
“We'll do that,” Lark said, getting up. “Does your dad smoke Marlboros?”
“My dad didn't know those girls from Adam,” Ron shouted as he shoved his chair back and stood up. “Leave him out of this, goddammit. He's got enough problems.”
“I didn't say your dad did anything.” Lark replied, watching Ron's frightened face. “I just asked if your dad smokes Marlboros.”
“Yeah, right,” Ron said, turning to watch Mrs. Krejewski walk in the room.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asked, surveying the two men standing opposite each other.
“We're fine. We'll be leaving as soon as Ron answers my question,” Lark said, flashing her a smile.
“Yeah, he smokes Marlboros.” Ron stomped out.
“I'll see you two out as soon as I get Ron back to his room,” Mrs. Krejewski said, motioning for Lark and Lacey to sit down.
“He sure reacted when you asked him about his dad.”
“I'd say he overreacted.”
Before Lacey could respond, Mrs. Krejewski bustled back in the room.
“This is none of my business, but that's never stopped me before,” she said, dropping into the chair Ron had vacated. “Ron was quite the high school football player. My son played against him in high school. During his senior year, the sports pages were full of stories about him and what a promising athlete he was. You know, he went to Madison on a football scholarship.”
“How's he been since he got here?” Lacey asked, wondering why they hadn't heard any of this until now.
“Very depressed. Facing the fact that he's an alcoholic. There were
always rumors that he had a problem with alcohol. I didn't know how bad it was until he was admitted.” All traces of jocularity left her face. “Look, this is none of my business, in fact, I probably shouldn't be talking to you, but he's worried to death about his mom.”
always rumors that he had a problem with alcohol. I didn't know how bad it was until he was admitted.” All traces of jocularity left her face. “Look, this is none of my business, in fact, I probably shouldn't be talking to you, but he's worried to death about his mom.”
“He told us he gave her a black eye,” Lacey said.
“He told me that, too, but I think his father has done far worse many times before. He's worried about her now that he's here and can't take care of her.”
“Has he mentioned the two girls who were killed?” Lacey asked.
“Only the first one. He cried a couple of times when he talked about her.”
“He hasn't mentioned Terry Foltz?” Lark asked.
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