Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1) (20 page)

36

Gun parked in front of a small brick cafe on a mostly
boarded-up Main Street. The sign painted in red
letters across the big picture window said
fat
Freddie’s.
In smaller letters below, it said
Post Office
in Rear: Hope, Minnesota 56362.

“You sure about this?” Carol asked.

“Freddie eats his own cooking,” Gun answered.

They got out of the Horizon and stretched. Jack and
Geoff came rumbling up in Gun’s pickup. Gun
walked to Jack’s window.

“Geoff behaving himself?”

Geoff leaned forward. His face had gotten older on
the drive. “You guys are done,” he said. “All done. You might as well let me off here.”

“Surly child,” said Jack.

They were given the window booth. The place
wasn’t particularly clean, but the burgers were thick, the buns homemade. Fat Freddie was nowhere to be
seen. Gun ate quickly and finished first, then gave a
summary of Carol’s news from Stony. As he spoke he
took out a small pearl-handled jackknife and started
working on his fingernails. “Hedman might have all
the roads into the county sealed off,” he said. “But
there’s another way in. By water. The northern tip of
Stony Lake juts over the county line. All we need to do
is reach the lake, find a boat, and head for my place.
We pick up Barr and motor on into town, right up to the docks at the Muskie Lounge. If the referendum’s passed, and you can bet it will have, the celebration will be in full swing.”

“Where’s the boat going to come from?” Carol
asked.

“There are lots of good boats up there on the north
end. We’ll get a friend to lend us one.”

“It might not be so easy for you to find a friend
tonight,” Carol said.

“Maybe not,” Gun agreed. “But when I need to, I
can turn on the charm.” He pointed his jackknife at
her.

“I think tonight you’ll need to.”

“You watch,” Gun said.

The waitress came with the check and set it down in
front of Jack, who slid it over to Gun. “You’re
treating, right?”

The waitress now at the till was older, with red eyes
and orange lipstick. Her cheeks were broad, the skin
starting to sag. “Your face,” she said, waving the
twenty Gun handed her. “I could swear I’ve seen it.”

“I don’t think so,” Gun said.

They left Fat Freddie’s. Gun was following Geoff
down the sidewalk when suddenly Geoff turned.
“Gun,” he said. “I really need some cigarettes. Mind
if I run back in?”

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

“I’ll go in with you.” Gun steered Geoff back inside
by an elbow.

Geoff told the woman at the till he wanted three
packs of Camels, then picked up a pen from the
counter and started writing a check. Gun stopped him
and paid for the cigarettes with a five.

“My treat. Let’s get going.” He took Geoff’s elbow,
but Geoff pulled away.

“I should use the can. Before we take off.” Geoff’s
face verified the urgency in his voice.

Gun waited outside the men’s room. “Feel better?”
he said when Geoff emerged. Geoff only smiled and
shrugged his shoulders.

Back on the road the barren lowlands began to give
way to an occasional hill populated with scrub pines.
The wind seemed to be coming from the west and
south at the same time, and Gun suspected about
sundown it would switch around to the east again.
The thinning cloud cover would firm up and drop
down low, making good darkness.

Mazy was in the front seat now, Carol in back. It
was the first time Gun and his daughter had been
alone together since the rescue, and they talked quietly while Carol slept, told each other old family stories.
The memories were fresh tonight, pleasant to dwell
on, not painful, Gun realized.

“I’m sorry I missed so much,” he said.

“It’s okay.” Mazy leaned back on the headrest and smiled at the ceiling. “Mom said something once, late
in the summer. You were on a road trip.”

“As usual.”

“She told me that missing someone you love is a
privilege.”

“She was right,” Gun said.

Silence. He looked at his daughter, who smiled
thinly, turned away. She said, “Sometimes I wasn’t

sure if you missed her at all. I was afraid the only thing
hurting you was the guilt. I wanted to think it was love
too.”

“Both,” said Gun. “A lot of both, Mazy.”
He swallowed hard, trying to relax the
swelling in his throat. He was afraid to let himself
speak again.

37

Gun slowed the car as it neared the crest of a long climb, dark trees rising up on both sides, headlights
spearing the low gray clouds like a pair of giant white
fingers. Then the road flattened out and Gun pulled
onto the gravel shoulder. On a clear night the view
from here would be magnificent, an endless reach of
black forest, dotted here and there with lights and
cleft in two by the liquid expanse of Stony Lake. But the wind had shifted around to the east, as Gun had
expected, and tonight not a single light was visible. He
shut off the engine and rolled down his window. As if
wakened by the silence, Mazy sat up from sleep. No
one spoke. Gun could smell the lake. He could feel the
cool late-inning buoyancy in the space beneath his
heart.

The rumble of the pickup approached from behind.
Headlights illuminated the inside of the Horizon, and
Gun got out and walked the ten yards back along the
gravel shoulder to talk with Jack.

“Let’s park in Landsom’s gravel pit,” Gun said.
“We can walk from there, through the federal land.”

“You got any ideas about a boat?”

“Yup.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Gun led the way. He continued half a mile on the
county road, then took a right and went a quarter mile
on township gravel. Just past an empty farmhouse he
turned right again, then followed a curving, rutted drive that cut through heavy woods. The gravel pit was about a hundred yards in, an old dig no longer
used and overgrown with weeds. It looked like a
moon crater. At the far end was Landsom’s rusty
combine, sitting there as it had for years, like a frozen
dinosaur.

“We’ll walk in from here,” Gun said. He parked
behind the combine. “It’s only a quarter mile to the
lake. Straight that way.” He pointed into the woods,
due south.

Jack pulled up alongside in the pickup. Gun walked
back to the trunk of the Horizon, opened it, brought
up artillery. The Savage over-and-under, a Remington
870 twelve-gauge he’d picked up in Winnipeg, boxes
of shells.

“You said this was going to be easy,” Carol said,
slamming the door of the Horizon and striding toward
Gun. “Get a boat, pick up Barr, cruise into town.
Nothing to it.”

“That’s right.”

“So what are those for?” She pointed at the shot
guns.

Gun didn’t answer. Jack leaned into the bed of the pickup and held up a long fish-cleaning knife in a
leather sheath. “For you, Carol. Just in case.” He
reached over and slid the blond-handled knife into the
front pocket of her jeans.

Carol stroked the knife’s handle and frowned.
“What kind of trouble are you guys expecting?” she
said, a ripple in her voice.

“Maybe none,” Gun said.

“Maybe more of what we had out west,” Jack
added.

Carol’s eyes were on the shotguns and troubled. She
said, “I’m afraid having weapons along will only make
things worse. Gun”—she drew the fish-cleaning knife
from the sheath in her pocket, its blade long and
slightly curved—”I’m starting to think you really
want
this. A physical confrontation. You and Lyle...
and the law of the jungle.” She shot Gun a sarcastic smile.

Gun handed the Savage across to Jack.

Carol said, “Mazy, can’t you see what’s going on
here?”

Mazy shook her head. “I don’t think you know what
kind of people we’re dealing with.”

“The kind of people we’re dealing with? We’re dealing with a bunch of hired deputies, and none of
them are the least bit interested in doing us any
harm.” Carol ignored a chuckle from Jack.

“That’s right,” said Geoff. Everyone looked at him.
He kept his face on the level and his shoulders high, but took a step backward.

Jack said, “Geoff’s the only one agreeing with you,
Carol.”

“You’ve all got an inflated idea of Lyle Hedman’s
power,” Carol said. Her eyes were bright and her face
shone with anger. No one answered.

Gun slid the pump action of his Remington back
and forth twice to be sure it wasn’t jammed, then thumbed four shells into the magazine, pumped one into the chamber, filled out the magazine with num
ber five, and checked the safe. He looked around
the circle of faces. “Time to see about that boat,” he
said.

Jack loaded his shotgun and they started off, Gun
out front, Geoff sandwiched in mid-file, Jack in the rear. The forest was old and relatively free of undergrowth, and in ten minutes they could see Old Stony
Road. The lake was twenty yards beyond it, hidden now by a fog rising off the water.

“You all know Lou Young’s place, right? It’s his boat I’m thinking of. Old Glastron, built like a tank,
big Merc on the back. He keeps it on the lift. If I know
Lou, it’ll be unlocked.” Gun glanced around at each
face. Jack’s chin and cheekbones looked hard as
cement. His eyes twinkled like spots of polished
granite. Geoff seemed thoughtful, almost confident,
gazing off in the direction of the lake. Carol’s eyes
were dark slants. Half her mouth was turned up
in a skeptic’s grin. Mazy’s face was placid and beau
tiful, but Gun knew if he touched her arm he’d be
surprised at her hardness. As a small girl she’d smiled
dreamily through all her shots, yet more than one
doctor had broken off needles in her tough little
muscles.

“Okay,” Gun said. “Let’s stay well back from the road until we’re opposite the grove of maples that
borders east of Lou’s property. Then we cross over the
road and walk the center of the grove to the lake. From
there it’s only forty yards or so to the boat. The bank is pretty steep. We stay low and Lou needn’t see us.”

“I thought your charm was getting us the boat,”
Carol said.

“Your point.” Gun smiled. He motioned with his head and started walking. Across the road from the
maple grove they gathered in the darkness below the
spreading limbs of an oak. Two sets of headlights passed by. One was a county sheriff’s car, headed
toward Stony.

“He’s out of his jurisdiction,” Jack said.

“Should’ve flagged him down, told him so.”

Dark again, they crossed the road, stayed to the
middle of the grove and made the lake. The water was
sheltered from the wind here, and the surface shone
with a dark luster, like well-used pewter. To the right,
barely visible in the fog, was a small boathouse.
Young’s heavy runabout hung in front of it, suspended
just above the water in the square metal skeleton of the lift.

In a low crouch Gun started toward the boathouse,
Carol and the others following. At the near corner of it
Gun was stopped by a soft, low growl. He reached
back and put a steadying hand on Carol’s arm,
strained ahead to see some form or concentration of
darkness. There was nothing. A dog? Lou had never
owned one, Gun was sure of it. Scavenging coon,
maybe. Or mink. He’d heard one growl like that once,
a thirty-five-inch buck, its foot in a trap. Gun took a
slow step forward and his boot snapped a twig. Then a
throaty roar exploded in the air, and a shadow of
liquid motion leapt from the opposite corner of the
boathouse, eyes glowing yellow, body cutting the night
like wind. Gun braced himself and brought up his
shotgun like a staff. The yellow eyes flew at Gun’s
neck. Something snapped. There was a hard thump, a
choking sound. A floodlight kicked in, washing the
lakefront white. A German shepherd lay at Gun’s feet,
coughing, back legs splayed, front legs pawing at the
chain around its neck.

“The hell’s going on here!”

Lou Young’s lanky figure stood on the sloping
ground between his cabin and the boathouse. Gun
started up the hill toward him, alone.

“That you, Gun?”

“Sure is, Lou.” Gun walked up to him. White curls
stuck out from under Lou Young’s camouflage hunt
ing cap. He was sucking on a short fat cigar. His old
face was nothing but bone and shadow.

“Didn’t know you had a dog, Lou,” Gun said. He
set the stock of his Remington on the grass.

“Don’t have a dog,” Lou said. “My sister’s. She’s off for Arizona these two weeks.” Lou tilted his head and
shot a stream of smoke straight up. “Got a nasty
voice, though, don’t he?”

Gun nodded. “You’re not in town for the doings,
Lou.”

“Nope.” He squinted at Gun. “But I guess you’re
on
your
way.”

“Yup.”

“And you want my boat.”

“That’s right.”

“Hedman’s got some money on your head, Gun.
Not exactly official, but folks know about it. Five
grand to whoever gets you on a leash.” Lou took the
cigar from his lips, hawked, and spit.

“What do you think about that, Lou?”

“I think the man who’d take it is as shit-slimy as the
one who’s offerin’.” Lou looked from Gun down to
the lakeshore and nodded toward the boat. “There’s a
fresh tank of gas. Choke her down halfway till she’s
warm.”

“Appreciate it,” Gun said. He turned to leave.

“There’s lots of folk like me around,” Lou said.
“Don’t say a whole hell of a lot. Tend to stay out of
things, like you do most of the time. But they can’t
jerk our heads around too easy, neither.”

Without turning, Gun lifted a hand in reply and
walked on down to the lake. “Lou says we can have the
boat,” he said.

“Charming,” said Carol.

They boarded and motored off into the foggy dark
ness, the German shepherd setting up a high, mourn
ful howling that pierced the heavy drone of the big
outboard. It was a ten-mile trip by water to Gun’s place, half an hour. Jack drove. Gun sat close to the starboard gunwale and let his burned hands slice
through the cool water. Off Crow Point half a dozen
boats worked the walleye hole, but aside from that
they were alone on the lake, or seemed to be. Visibility
was poor. No moon, no stars. Just the ragged fog that
hung in wispy shreds above the water and swept
through their faces like clouds through an airplane.
The wind had stalled out and the ride was smooth, the
boat’s headlight beam steady.

They reached Gun’s dock at ten-thirty, according to Jack’s gold watch with green glow-in-the-dark hands.
Mazy tied up the boat.

“Got the jail keys?” Gun said to Carol.

“Sure.” She held up a ring.

They walked to the boathouse and gathered in a
semicircle at the door. Jack said, “You hungry in
there, Reverend?” Carol put the key in the padlock. It
didn’t snap open. She tried again, shook it. Nothing
happened.

“You sure it’s the right key?” Gun asked.

“Positive.”

“Here. Let me try.” Gun leaned the Remington
against the wall next to the door, inserted the key and
yanked. The lock held. “You all right in there, Barr?”
he yelled.

“Fine,” came the muffled response.

Jack produced a small flashlight from his pants and
looked through Carol’s key ring. Gun walked to the
woodpile next to his house and came back with a
wedge-shaped splitting maul.

“This is ludicrous, it worked before,” Carol said.

“Give me a little room,” Gun said. He hefted the
maul, swung it high, brought it down.

The lock broke under a single swing. Gun pulled the door open and stepped forward with Jack. It was black
inside, and suddenly from the blackness sprang a
heavy growl and the sharp snap of shell entering
chamber. “Damn,” whispered Gun.

Another voice said, “Lay it down, LaSalle.”