Hunter's Moon (39 page)

So far only one squad car had driven by. Dennis had watched him round the corner and come creeping up the street, slowing even more when he started to pass Dennis’s truck. At the point where the cop might have stopped and asked him what he was doing, Dennis opened the door, stepped out, and waved to the officer, then proceeded up the driveway toward the house in front of which he’d been sitting. He felt the cop behind him, watching as Dennis made his way to the front door, trying to take his time without looking like he was taking his time. If the cop had watched him all the way to the door, Dennis had no idea what he would have done, since he had no idea who lived here. Fortunately the squad car had rolled on, allowing Dennis to return to his truck and wonder again what he was doing.

He blamed CJ. He’d been the one to convince Dennis that this thing with Stephanie warranted another shot. Without his friend’s urging, Dennis would have been content to wallow in the misery of another love gone wrong. Instead he was sitting a few houses down from hers, trying to work up the courage to walk up her drive and ring the doorbell. He had sense enough not to sit in front of her house. He thought it might defeat the whole
trying not to be creepy
thing if she happened to look out her window and see him sitting in his truck in the dark.

Eloquent speeches, for obvious reasons, were not his strong suit, so he didn’t know what he’d say if he found the courage to talk to her. How does one apologize for throwing up on a lady’s shoes and emerge with his dignity intact?

The radio was on, and Dennis had it tuned to a mix station out of Winifred—one of those that specialized in music from his high school years. He didn’t want to think about what it meant that the song currently playing was “I’ll Be Watching You,” which everyone knew was the green light for stalkers worldwide.

Tomorrow he had to set out for the Eastern Adirondacks to meet CJ and Artie. If things didn’t work out with Stephanie—if she slammed the door in his face, or screamed, or did any number of things that Dennis could imagine her doing—he would make sure that CJ paid for it.

In vindictiveness he found the courage he needed. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled the truck up to Stephanie’s house, parking by her mailbox.

He was halfway up her driveway when the cop rolled by again, the car slowing as it approached Dennis’s truck, now parked in a different spot. Dennis felt the man’s eyes on him as he walked up to the front door, but he ignored the sensation. When he reached the door, he afforded himself a single deep breath before he rang the doorbell.

Chapter 31

CJ had to admit that for an old man, Artie was as adventurous as they came. They’d left the lake a few miles behind, cutting through a part of the forest where the undergrowth had not assumed lordship and where the trees were far enough apart to give hikers a near straight shot to a river Artie said he remembered. He’d told CJ that he wanted to fish the river this morning instead of the lake, and since this was Artie’s trip, CJ didn’t argue.

More than once, CJ had wondered if Artie knew where he was headed, but he wasn’t overly concerned. For one thing, Artie’s steps exuded confidence. And had that wavered, the older man had a GPS device in his pack.

But after a good hike they’d come out from the trees on the bank of the Potter River. CJ was thigh-deep in the water and could feel the cold through his waders, but only as something on the periphery. He drew back and cast, the fly finding the spot he’d meant it to find, in a still pool on the other side of the river, where a rock formation acted as a barrier against the current. The water was deep, and CJ knew the brook trout were down there, skulking about the bottom, but he hadn’t gotten them to bite.

Downstream, Artie worked his own spot. CJ glanced that way just as his boss cast. Each time he drew the rod back and sent the fly on its journey, CJ understood that he was bearing witness to a master. The sheer confidence Artie exuded in the water, the effortlessness of his casts, and the way the current appeared to cut around him—it all spoke of someone who’d done this his entire life. The fact that he’d caught two trout provided further proof of that. The first he’d taken in and wrapped in a wet towel until later when he would prepare it for dinner. The second was a bigger fish, which he released. CJ, who had yet to feel a tug on his line, watched with envy as Artie removed the hook from the trout’s mouth and sent it on its way.

Even so, there were few things he enjoyed more than fishing. Hunting was one, and he had to admit there were times—today being one of them—that jumbled the order.

He reeled in the line, watching the fly skitter across the water in fits and starts, but nothing bit. When he felt he’d drawn it out long enough he brought in the rest of the line, set himself and cast again, a perfect arc that again dropped the fly where he wanted it.

Onshore, Thor had settled into a nap, having spent the first hour exploring both the water and the solid ground that bordered it. CJ couldn’t have imagined taking this trip without his dog, who appeared to be enjoying the experience more than CJ.

Artie prepared to cast again. CJ watched the man’s technique, thinking he might pick up a pointer or two. As he watched, he started to reel in his own line, paying no attention to the fly. Which was why it took him by surprise when he felt a tug on the line.

The phone was ringing when Julie walked into the house, so she hurried into the kitchen and set the grocery bags down on the counter. A half gallon of milk toppled when she released her hold on the bags, but she ignored it as she removed the phone from its cradle.

“Hello,” she said.

It was Meredith, and Julie could hardly hear her for the crying.

“Slow down, Mer. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Meredith did slow down, at least enough so Julie could pick out the big pieces, even as the milk trickled onto the counter and tile floor. When Julie had heard all she needed to hear she hung up the phone and stayed at the counter for a while, allowing it to brace her. She often wondered if she’d gotten the best of the Bax-ters when she married Ben. Before he had come back to Adelia, she’d wondered about CJ —how the kind, sensitive, intelligent boy she’d known had turned out. It was one of the reasons she’d read his books, to see if she could ascertain what sort of adult the boy had turned into. With his return, she’d found him to be everything she’d hoped he would be, if a little misguided by his present circumstances. Weren’t all of them misguided to some degree? Would someone fully vested in the faith have succumbed so easily to the wiles of a youthful romance? She was the last person who would throw stones.

What she would always be thankful for was a husband who possessed the faith that she would do the right thing, and a God who also knew, and who would work to ensure it. That was the most magnificent part—that she could, while seeking God’s direction, also know that she was the one being led, and it was down a road that He had already cleared for her.

She’d always wondered, though, if Graham might be the other Baxter whose apple had rolled far down the hill from the family tree. She’d heard the stories, of course. Who hadn’t? But like many in Adelia, she’d come to accept the fact that it had been a horrible accident—that with a single errant shot he’d claimed the life of his best friend. And what supported that belief was that, unlike most of the other men who shared the Baxter name, Graham was thoughtful, intelligent, and kind—much like his younger brother.

But when a man hit a woman, there was a certain mantle he was then forced to wear. And when Julie placed Graham in that mantle, she found that it carried the trappings of the past.

She sighed as she went about cleaning up the milk. Jack was at football practice and Sophie at ballet. Julie had time to drive over to Meredith’s house, to offer whatever comfort she could. Before she did, she would thank God for the man who was her husband—and also for CJ, the man who might have been but for God’s mysterious providence.

Thor stood attentive watch over the lunch fire, his eyes never leaving the pan in which the fish fried that Artie had pulled from the river.

“I think your dog is eyeing our lunch,” Artie remarked.

CJ looked over from where he was rooting around in his backpack, saw his dog focused on the sizzling trout.

“Yeah, he’ll do that,” CJ said. “He’ll eventually stop.”

Artie glanced over at the dog, then back at CJ.

“Let me guess. When the fish is gone?”

“Exactly,” CJ said. He pulled a fresh pair of socks from the backpack to replace the ones that had wound up wet from the river. He returned to the fire and stripped off his wet socks, placing them on a rock near the heat. He looked back at his dog.

“Where are your manners?” he asked the dog sharply, but if Thor was bothered by either the question or the tone, it didn’t seem to register.

“You can’t blame him,” Artie said. “There are few things that taste as good as trout fresh from the river.”

That was a sentiment with which CJ could agree. And depending on how magnanimous he was feeling while eating the fish, he might even let Thor try some.

“So where are those other campers who are supposed to be here?” CJ asked. “You know, the ones who were supposed to take us across the lake?”

Artie looked up from where he was frying the fish and glanced around at a campground that, except for them, was empty of life.

“It would seem the ferryman had better things to do,” he said.

CJ didn’t mind the extra distance, though he suspected he might feel differently tomorrow. But he wondered how Artie was doing—how long he would be able to traverse paths that CJ expected would become more difficult during tomorrow’s part of the trip. Still, if he’d learned one thing from watching his boss for the last month, it was not to question the man’s determination. Or the power of whatever steroid injection he’d received; those must have been
some
shots.

Thor finally shifted his attention to something other than the fish. The dog walked around the fire, angling for the warm rock that held CJ’s drying socks. CJ saw what was about to happen an instant before it did as Thor snapped one up.

“Hey!” he shouted, but Thor was already beyond his reach, racing with his prize toward the tree line. CJ thought about following him, yet he knew it would be pointless. The only thing he could hope for now was that rather than dropping the sock somewhere in the woods, Thor would at least have the decency to bring it back, chewed or not. It was only a sock, but it was an expensive one. CJ shook his head in the direction his dog had disappeared.

Artie laughed. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll enjoy your wet sock as much as he would have the fish.”

“Maybe he’ll choke on it,” CJ muttered.

Artie laughed again. “If the smell doesn’t kill him first.”

CJ smiled and then moved to get a better look at the fish. “Looks just about ready,” he said.

Artie didn’t say anything right away but kept his eyes on the browning trout. When he finally looked up, CJ suspected he wasn’t thinking about fish.

“Do you see how you did that?” Artie asked.

“How I did what?”

Artie removed the pan from over the fire and set it on a nearby rock. With the spatula he gestured toward the woods into which Thor had gone.

“Just a few seconds ago you were angry with Thor and now you’re not.”

CJ offered a chuckle. “What good does it do to stay angry at a dog? Plus, it’s not like he meant anything by it. He just likes socks.”

Artie found the two plastic plates they’d brought and served up some of the trout, handing a plate to CJ.

“The thing is,” Artie said, “I’m not sure there was that much thought involved. You didn’t want to be angry with him, so you weren’t.”

CJ separated a piece of fish with his fork and ate it. Once again Artie had been right. There were few things better than trout that had just been pulled from the river. He considered Artie’s words, then shrugged.

“Okay, so I don’t want to be mad at my dog. So?”

Artie had taken his plate and settled on the ground near the fire. He sampled some of his own cooking, gave a satisfied smile, and pointed his now-empty fork in CJ’s direction.