Hunter's Moon (41 page)

CJ started to stifle a yawn before realizing there was no point in doing so. He was tired, and he had a right to be tired. If the long hike and the day spent fishing hadn’t worn him out, Artie’s snoring last night had kept him from getting any quality sleep. It had been an odd snore, with something of a whistling sound in the mix. He wondered if that was what Janet meant when she told him how he snored.

“We should probably call it a night,” Artie said in agreement.

CJ suspected that was a good idea, except that the fire and the company had lulled him into a peaceful place that he didn’t want to leave. But Artie was right. They wanted to head out early tomorrow, for no other campers—specifically campers with boats—had arrived since lunch, which meant they’d have to go around the lake rather than across it. They’d be hard-pressed to make it to Black Mountain, and their rendezvous with Dennis, by dusk.

Still, he didn’t move. Thor too looked content to remain by the fire. The dog was sound asleep, the occasional twitch of a paw signifying the periodic canine dream. When CJ looked over at Artie, it seemed his boss wasn’t in a hurry to move either.

They had let the conversation they’d had earlier go—to the point that neither of them felt uncomfortable in the other’s presence. CJ understood that what Artie had said, he’d needed to say. CJ also knew that, on some level, he needed to hear it.

“Did you ever sit in the car?” CJ asked. He didn’t know why he asked it; it was just there.

If Artie had any question about which car CJ meant, he didn’t show it. He shook his head. “I don’t even think your dad ever did,” he said. “I think Sal would have killed us.”

CJ chuckled and the sound roused Thor.

“Sorry, pal,” CJ said to the dog.

“Sometimes I’d see him in there with a bottle, and a cigarette hanging out the window,” Artie said.

“That sounds like Sal.”

CJ picked up a long stick near his feet and used it to poke at the fire. Listening to Artie talk about the house—about CJ’s family—reminded him of the picture in his mom’s attic.

“You know, my mom has a picture of you in her attic. Or she used to. Dad destroyed it when he was up there.” He shook his head and looked at Artie for some shared disgust for CJ’s father. Instead he was surprised to see that the color had drained from Artie’s face. “Are you okay, boss?”

It took Artie a few seconds but he nodded. “Fine,” he said.

He looked and sounded anything but fine, yet CJ didn’t press the point. As he watched, color started to return to Artie’s face. CJ was curious, though, about what had caused that kind of reaction. He’d only mentioned the picture. . . .

He frowned, his eyes dropping to the fire, to the flames that were lower now than they were just a few minutes ago.

“Artie, when did you say that your friendship with my father ended?”

For the second time in less than a minute, Artie’s response was slow in coming. Finally, he said, “Sometime when your father was in college. Sophomore year, I think.”

CJ considered that. The way CJ understood the family history, George and Dorothy hadn’t met until CJ’s father was two years removed from college—long after his friendship with Artie would have turned cold.

“How did you know my mother?” CJ asked after a long time had passed.

When he looked up from the fire this time, Artie had not lost the color in his face. Quite the opposite, in fact; extra color lit his cheeks. And it was at that moment CJ knew for whom Maggie had been a surrogate prom date.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. And it was for more than the fact that Artie had loved his mother. It was the whole convoluted timeline. Dorothy had rejected Artie in high school. Artie and CJ’s father had been friends until college. CJ’s mom had in her possession a picture of Artie—one of him in at least his midtwenties—when George and Dorothy would have been married. It didn’t make sense.

Except that it did.

CJ still couldn’t speak; he was almost frightened of what he would say. He couldn’t even look at Artie, because the answer to a question he hadn’t known he needed to consider was probably right there, written on the face of a man he’d come to love as something like a father.

As CJ sorted through all of this, Thor raised his head and stared out into the darkness, and CJ only half registered the change in the dog’s demeanor. It wasn’t until Thor rose, eyes locked on the tree line, that CJ noticed.

“What’s wrong, pal?”

Thor looked over his shoulder at CJ, then looked back at the forest and, after a moment, left the circle of the fire, disappearing into the night.

“Probably smelled a possum,” Artie said. When CJ didn’t reply he added, “Don’t worry about him. He’ll come back when he realizes how bad possums taste.”

CJ watched the spot where his dog had vanished, mostly because that kept him from looking at Artie—even though that was all he wanted to do.

“I’ve never tasted possum,” he said.

They’d decided that only Graham and Richard would set for the shot. At this distance there was little chance they would miss, and keeping George in reserve ensured a detached observer who would be able to make tactical decisions if necessary.

Richard went low and shimmied out from behind a concealing tree. When he reached the corridor, he raised up to get a look at the targets. Graham soon followed. He slipped past Richard, almost to the tree on the opposite side before going to a knee. The Kimber felt heavier than normal, but he pushed that thought away. He raised the rifle and sighted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Richard do the same, the Weatherby Mark V settling in his hands. Richard had a Leupold scope on the rifle, even though at thirty yards either of them could have closed their eyes and hit their marks.

Then all of Graham’s attention was on the distant point in front of the gun’s sight. Although the shape at nine o’clock was indeed his, Graham still wasn’t sure who it was. The sight centered then on the man’s chest—green shirt, a brown jacket . . .

It was Artie. Graham released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Next to him, Richard waited for Graham’s signal.

Graham took a slow breath, and then gave a single click of the tongue.

A fraction of a second later, as his finger started to squeeze the trigger, he heard a low growl, then something hit him from behind. He heard the report of the shot, and another an instant later, before his world was nothing but sharp teeth and fur.

The animal had his arm—jaws like a vise. Graham twisted, trying to use the gun to put some distance between himself and his attacker. From somewhere beyond his field of vision he heard Richard curse and then another shot rang out.

Richard gave up the gun and began to punch the animal—it was a dog—in the head, but it wouldn’t release his arm. He was about to call out for help when he saw a thick branch come down on the dog. As it struck, the dog snapped down even harder on Graham’s arm. Pain shot up to his shoulder. He yelled, and in the next instant he was free.

Graham’s breath came in gasps. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he pulled his injured arm to his chest.

“They’re running,” Richard said, with a snarl much like the dog’s.

“That’s CJ’s dog,” George said, gesturing to where Thoreau had hobbled away, disappearing into the darkness. The old man looked over at Graham. “We have to go after them.”

Graham nodded and, wincing from the pain in his arm, got to his feet and picked up his gun. The dog had messed up the shot, and now CJ and Artie were running. They had to move quickly—couldn’t let their quarry put any distance between them. He looked at his father.

“Go,” George said. “I’ll be right behind.”

Graham nodded, and after a last glance to where Thor had vanished, he started off after his brother.

Chapter 33

“C’mon, Artie!” CJ urged.

He had his boss by the elbow, trying to will Artie’s legs to move faster, but the combined effect of two days of hiking and the last hour spent sitting had stiffened them, regardless of the steroid shots.

CJ tried to ignore the pain in his shoulder, which felt like a fire that wouldn’t go out. He thought the bullet had just grazed him, although he couldn’t spare the time to check. He could still move the shoulder, and for now that was all that mattered.

“At least two people,” Artie said, huffing on each word.

CJ nodded. The first two shots were almost on top of each other; they couldn’t have come from the same gun.

His and Artie’s guns bounced against the small of his back as he ran, as he dragged Artie along. He’d had the presence of mind to scoop them up as they fled the campsite, and that was only possible because the inexact science of flight had taken them right past the tree against which they leaned. Right now, though, the guns were useless, since they had nothing to point them at.

And Artie had managed to grab CJ’s pack, but CJ didn’t think there was much inside that would help them.

The two men followed the Meachem shoreline, trying to put some distance between themselves and their attackers before cutting back into the forest, where CJ hoped to lose any further pursuit. He had to assume pursuit.

He felt Artie falling behind, his arm slipping from CJ’s grasp.

“Don’t slow up, Artie,” he said.

Artie didn’t answer, but CJ felt him put it into another gear.

When CJ guessed they’d traveled around two hundred yards, he started to angle for the forest, taking the slight rise as fast as Artie would let him. Once, he lost his grip on Artie’s arm, but then recovered it before the older man could fall behind. Only when they reached the comparative safety of the trees did CJ let go again.

“Stop,” Artie called after him. “I have to stop.”

CJ looked back and saw Artie doubled over, his hands on his knees. He hurried back. “I’m sorry, Artie, but we have to keep going.”

Rather than reply, Artie took in air. CJ could see a vein pounding in his neck.

“I know,” Artie finally said. “I know.” He forced himself upright. “Where are we going?”

It was a great question. Up to now his only goal had been to get as far away from the camp as they could. But Artie had a point; they needed a destination.

“I think we should find the state road. What is it, the 30?”

They’d crossed the road the previous day on the hike from Spring Cove. CJ didn’t know what getting back to the road would do for them, but with any luck they’d spot a car they could flag down.

Artie nodded his agreement and they started off, CJ picking what he hoped was a direction that would take them to the road.

“Who are they?” Artie asked.

CJ wanted to know that too, but instead of venturing a guess, he said, “Can you run?”

They found blood at the campsite.

It meant that someone was hurt, and the location of the blood told Graham it was CJ. What they didn’t find, though, were any guns.

He and Richard had followed CJ and Artie’s trail toward the water, where it looked as if they were headed along Meachem’s southern edge. A trip around the lake would take them east toward Black Mountain, yet there was nothing that way but forbidding terrain. To the west there was a road. Graham thought that if their positions were reversed, he’d head for the road.

“Let’s go,” he said to Richard, leaving the lake behind and striding toward the forest. Looking back toward the campsite, he saw his father coming out from behind the tent. Graham raised his hand and pointed east, which George would take as a sign to head back to the rendezvous point to meet up with Daniel. At this point, Graham could only hope for one of two things: either they ran across Artie and CJ, and finished it, or they met Daniel and hurried back to Adelia.

As he and Richard entered the forest, double-timing it toward the road, he released a sigh. Had CJ not brought the dog, the whole thing would have been over. Now there was no way to know how this thing would turn out. And he couldn’t decide how he felt about that.