Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1) (4 page)

4

He picked it up and said, “Hmm.”

“Gun—God, I’m glad you’re there!”

“Who is this? Tig? You don’t sound so good”

“I’m awful, could you please—” His voice broke
into a cough and he grabbed a breath that sounded
like a straw sucking the bottom of a glass.

“What’s going on?”

“You’ll understand when you get here. Please.” The
receiver clicked and he was gone.

“I’m on my way, Tig,” said Gun, smiling.

Tig Larson, the county commissioner, was a man
who treated life itself as an emergency, so Gun didn’t
feel the need to hurry. He walked out to his Ford
pickup, a white ‘71 F-150 sitting by the garage. Its
windshield, victim of a wicked foul ball, looked like a
road map of New York. When Gun turned the key, the

engine backfired once, then started up in a ragged
rhythm that shook the cab. He waited for the eight
cylinders to find their balance, then turned a circle
around home plate and followed his daughter’s tracks.

Tig lived on the other side of the lake in a
little cluster of suburban-type homes, and Gun took the long way around instead of going through town.
He followed the narrow lake road and drove with his window down, enjoying the cool breeze off the water.

Most likely the commissioner had worked himself into a state of nerves thinking about the referendum next week. He was probably out to make a last ditch
effort to enlist Gun’s help.

Tig’s home was small and neat and built into the
south side of a man-made hill, and this morning he
had pulled the dark shades over the floor-to-ceiling
windows that covered his front-facing wall. Gun
knocked and Tig opened the door just a crack, peered
out at him over the chain of the safety lock.

“You look a little under the weather,” Gun said. It
was true. The man’s heavy face was fish-belly white.

Tig groaned his relief. “Thanks for coming.” He
opened the door and let Gun in. “Here, I’ll get us a
drink first,” he said, reaching for a bottle that sat on
the big console television.

“First?” said Gun. “No thanks.”

Tig poured himself half a tumbler of brandy and
drank it straight off.

“What’s going on?”

Tig pointed
outside and told Gun
to follow him.  He led the way out the door and down
the slope twenty yards to a small wooden storage shed,
stopped a few feet short of it and wiped at his eyes
with the knuckles of both hands. “It’s in there,” he
said.

Gun stepped up to the building and went inside.
There weren’t any windows and it was too black to see
anything, but he could smell something unhealthy in
the close air. “You got a light in here?”

“On the wall to your right.”

Gun flicked the switch and looked around, found
himself staring into the wide, scared, bloody eyes of a
cat. A yellow tabby. It blinked twice, then made a sound like a child clearing its throat. “Hoo,” Gun
breathed. The cat was spread out wide and staked
against the wall, nails driven through all four paws. It
was sliced open from throat to anus, and loops of
multicolored entrails hung clear to the floor.

“Still alive,” Tig moaned from outside.

Gun stepped from the shed, thinking of himself at
thirteen, having to shoot his big Newfoundland dog
Sally after she got hit on the road by the mailman’s
car. He’d used the twelve-gauge at close range, quick
and precise, and hadn’t cried until he dragged her off
into the woods for burial and felt the dead weight of
her. Now he walked past Tig to the pickup truck, took
the .38 Smith & Wesson from underneath the seat and
came back.

“Oh, my God,” said Tig. Gun rested a hand briefly
on the man’s shoulder, then reentered the shed.

He was careful to plug one ear with a finger and turn
the other away from the pistol, but the shot was still
incredibly loud inside the small building. The cat
relaxed and its head drooped forward. There was a
small new hole of sky in the wall. Gun found a

hammer and removed the nails. He took the animal
down and buried it off in the scrub weeds beyond
Tig’s lawn.

“I don’t think you’re listening, Gun. My God, it’s
terrorism, plain and simple, can’t you see it?
Hedman’s trying to turn me around, mess up my
head. The man’s paranoid. He’s got all the money,
he’s got the support of almost everybody with any real
influence around here, and he’s still afraid he’s gonna
lose. He’s been out here to visit me half a dozen times
in the last month. Trying to get me to change my
mind. And the last time he got mad. Made some
threats.”

“Such as.”

“I can’t go into it, Gun. Simply can’t.” Tig’s
shoulders rose and fell.

“So what are you asking me to do?” Gun shook his
head as Tig offered him the bottle, watched as the man
refilled his own glass yet again.

“Aw, damn, I don’t know. It’s getting pretty late in
the game to do anything. Would have been nice,
though, if there was somebody else on my side to take
a little of the heat, you know? Somebody like you.
Used to think of you as a friend. Or at least a guy who
wouldn’t back down when somebody wanted to shit in
his water. That money you gave to
Walleyes Unlimited? Really helped. And the time you
caught those poachers north of old man Young’s
place.” Tig’s voice was getting sloppy. “I
thought you were the sort of guy that comes through
in a jam. Not somebody who runs off, you know?”

Gun got up to leave. “Sorry, but I can’t do anything.
You’ll have to handle it alone, Tig.”

“You wanna see Hedman win this one, that’s what I
think. You stand to make a little cash on the deal.
”

Gun leaned down over the man and put a finger into
his chest. Tig scooted his chair backward.
“Look,” Gun said. “I think this plan of Hedman’s
stinks, okay? Same as you do. But there’s a lot of folks
around here, and I mean a lot of them, who don’t happen to agree with us.”

“Who? Tell me who?”

Gun sat back down at the table and propped up the
elbow of his talking arm, took a breath. “The guy laid
off from Hedman’s mill, say. Got a bunch of kids at
home and his wife’s out waiting on tables or serving
drinks.” He had to stop to fight off a rush of shame in
his belly. He’d never been a bullshitter and it was too
late to start now.

Tig laughed drunkenly. “You’d make a lousy politi
cian, know that?”

Gun got to his feet again and moved toward the
door. “That’s right. You’ve got plenty of those types
running around already. Let them fight it out. People
like yourself and Reverend Barr. You guys can sum
mon your forces and have your little war and one
side’ll win. That’s how these things work. I don’t want
any part of it.”

Tig drained off another glass of brandy and laughed
again, bitterly, shaking his head. “I’ve heard people
say this before about you, Gun, but up till now I never
wanted to believe it.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know the meaning of loyalty. You watch
out for the big slugger, numero uno, and to hell with
the rest of the crowd. Guess your wife could have said
something about that.”

Gun felt like a man who’s been dealt a punishing
blow to the gut. He took a deep breath and blew it out,
turned and opened the door. “Yeah, I guess you’re
right. She could at that.” He nodded and left.

That afternoon he drove north as he had planned,

but the property he was thinking of buying didn’t look nearly as good this time. Partly it was the rain that had
moved in. It came down hard and steady and smelled
like fish. The air was still, not a trace of wind, and
everywhere Gun looked he saw the same miserable
gray concoction of heavy weather he was feeling
inside.

He missed his appointment with the realtor on
purpose and drove on home. That night he went to
bed early and dreamed about things he couldn’t
remember the next morning. All he knew was he
hadn’t gotten much rest. He had to unwrap himself
from the twisted bedsheets.

5

Next morning. Cool sun. Gun was toweling down
after his swim, dripping all over the kitchen floor,
when someone rapped three quick beats on the door.

“Come in.”

“Mr. Pedersen?” The door opened and a woman
stepped in, no one he knew. She wore black jeans,
long ones, and black pumps that bared tan ankles to the chill of morning. She had black bangs with a few
gray strands scattered over her forehead, and lake-
green eyes Gun found himself wanting to look good
for her.

“Sorry about the longjohns,” he said.

She smiled, an easy tropical smile, then turned it
down some and said, “I’m Carol Long. Your daughter’s been watching
my place for me.”

“Yes.” Gun shoved his wet hair back with his
fingers, and a cold cup of Stony Lake ran down his
spine. He looked at Carol Long’s relentless legs and

attempted rational thought. “Yes. Mazy’s mentioned
you. You met at that reporters’ thing in Minneapolis.”

“The symposium, right.” The smile left and a little
fluster came into her voice. “Mazy’s not here.”

“She should be?”

“I was hoping so. I couldn’t get back last night, so I
called her, asked her to stay on an extra day. I pulled
in half an hour ago, and she’s gone. Thought she might
be over here.”

Gun finished with the towel and pointed to the stove. “There’s coffee. Mind if I put some clothes
on?”

“If you must.” The smile made a fleeting comeback.

He went to the bedroom and wondered what she
was doing, coming out here like this. Not even eight in
the morning. Must be something important if she was
in such a hurry to find Mazy. There were nerves in her
voice. Nothing nervous about the way she moved,
though, Sweet Heaven no. Gun wondered if she knew
how she looked to him; those slim black jeans, that
smile, probably she did. He wondered how he looked
to her, a man edging past the middle years, in
goosebumps and soaking longies. Hair still thick but going white before its time. He shut it from his mind
and found gray wool socks, jeans, a red wool shirt. It
was cool in the house, even with Carol Long there.

She was at the kitchen table ignoring a cup of coffee
and nibbling at a silver-set emerald on her
left hand. Gun poured and sat down.

“Now,” he smiled, “what’s so important you’ve got to come chasing my girl before breakfast gets cold?”

“Mr. Pedersen, it’s not that. Listen. She was sup
posed to stay at my house through today. We talked about it. Now I drive in, early, she’s nowhere in sight.
There’s her typewriter, even some notes lying next to
it, a blank sheet rolled in. Her car’s in the drive. But
she’s not there.”

“She runs in the mornings sometimes,” Gun said.
“Two, three miles, farther once in a while.”

Carol Long cleared her throat. Her eyes met Gun’s
and he saw a spark of steel in them. “Mr. Pedersen.
Do you know why I wanted someone in my house
while I was gone?”

“It’s Gun. No, I don’t.”

“I’ve had some trouble with vandals. And I was
threatened.”

“It’s a virus around here lately,” Gun said.

“So far just a few well-chosen words spray-painted
across my picture window, but I got a phone call promising worse. I suppose you can guess what it’s
about.”

“Mmm. I could.”

“You do read the
Journal
I suppose.”

“I’m sure it’s a good paper,” said Gun.

Carol stiffened, then said, “I’ve been running edito
rials against the Loon Country development.”

“Hedman wouldn’t appreciate that.” Gun
lifted his coffee, looked at Carol over the cup. “Did
Mazy know why you wanted somebody at your
place?”

“Of course. Look, she’s been poking around enough
to get some people upset. Good reporters do that. I just thought...” She let the sentence die on the table.

“You think she got somebody upset enough to do something damn stupid,” Gun said. “All right. Let’s
be sensible. You say her car’s still there, her typewrit
er. What about her other stuff, clothes and things?”

Carol looked at Gun, red coming up under her tan.
“God, I didn’t even look, I didn’t think. I’m sorry, it
just seemed so weird and empty in the house, that old
IBM of hers humming on the table all by itself—I
came straight out. I thought maybe you’d picked her
up, spur of the moment, go get some breakfast, I don’t
know.” She stood abruptly and went to the door. Gun
followed.

“I live twenty minutes from here. I’ll call you.”
Carol smoothed her hair, showed emerald ring, green
eyes.

“She’ll be there waiting for you,” Gun
said. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Long.”

“Not Mrs.,” Carol said, and went.

Gun went back to the kitchen, opened a drawer and
removed a narrow red can of tobacco and a match-
book of papers. He quickly rolled a cigarette, lit it,
then sat down at the table to smoke. The clock above
the old round-top refrigerator said quarter of eight.
Between drags Gun twirled the cigarette like a baton
in his big fingers and blew smoke rings up toward the
open-beam ceiling. He told himself his daughter knew
how to take care of herself, that she wasn’t a kid any
longer, that she was subtle enough and smart enough
to keep people from feeling threatened. She knew how
to put folks at ease, unlike most journalists Gun had
known. And he’d known far too many. Anyway, she
was probably just out running.

The phone rang and Gun picked it up. “Hello.”

“Carol Long.” Now her voice was low and controlled. “I checked in the bathroom, and her makeup
and toothpaste and cosmetic case, it’s all there. But it’s strange. I looked in the bedroom, in the dresser
and closet. Most of her clothes are gone, underwear,
socks, jeans, all six pairs of them—I was talking to her
when she unpacked. Her suitcase too. She shoved that
under the bed, and it’s not there now. Mr. Pedersen,
Mazy left in a hurry. I think you’d better call the
police.”

Gun shifted the receiver from one ear to the other
and started rolling a new cigarette. “Carol, didn’t
Mazy tell me you’ve been a reporter in Hawaii for the
last twenty years or so?”

“That’s right.”

“I suppose over there people call the cops when
they think someone’s in trouble. Here in Stony it’s not
that simple.”

“Oh?”

“How well are you acquainted with the police
here—Chief Bunn?”

Gun waited while Carol drew a slow breath. “He
seems ... competent enough.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Firm now.

Gun put the unlit cigarette between his lips, took his time, reached for a kitchen match. “Carol, I
shouldn’t, but I’m going to tell you a story. True one.”
He scratched the match on the black burner of the stove. He lit the cigarette and waved the match out.
“You know Harley Arnold, the grocer.”

“Sure.”

“He’s a neighbor of Bunn’s half a mile or so down
the road. A few winters ago now he caught a couple
fool kids from the high school swiping cooking sherry
from his shelves. He called their folks. Couple nights
later somebody drove past his house and put half a
dozen .22 slugs in his cedar siding.”

Carol was quiet.

“So Arnold called Bunn, and Bunn came over the
next night to see if anyone would try it again. He
parked the police car behind a big snowdrift a block
from Arnold’s, and he waited in Arnold’s junipers for
three hours, pistol in hand.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. But while he was waiting, those same fool
kids came along and took the police car for a ride.
Parked it in some frozen rushes out on the lake. He’d
left the keys in it.”

“All right, pretty stupid. But at least he gave it a try.
He could’ve done worse.”

“He did worse. At eleven o’clock he said good night
to Arnold and went on home. But he walked home.
Forgot he’d ever brought the car. He didn’t notice it
was gone until the next morning, and it was a week
before anyone found it.” Gun tapped ashes into the sink. “There’s nothing bad about Chief Bunn, Carol.
He just ought not to be a cop.”

“I see.” Carol paused. “What about Sheriff Bakke?
Have you got a reason not to call him?”

Gun smiled. “You probably don’t have time for
another story. And I don’t have time to tell it.”

“So. You’re going to take care of this yourself.”

“That’s right. Good-bye, now, and thanks for the
call.” He hung up, finished dressing, went outside and
started his truck. He didn’t hurry. Between his heart
and stomach he could feel something cool and hard and buoyant, like an icy balloon. It was a familiar feeling, and an old one. During his seventeen years with the Tigers he’d had it often, usually in the late
innings when he came to bat with men on base. A
good number of his 426 home runs had floated out on the icy balloon. Gun thought of it as a gathering place
of his energy, concentration, and nerve. It put his
brain on automatic, sharpened his senses. Since leav
ing the game ten years ago, though, the feeling had
been absent. Now it was back, and Gun was grateful
for its return.