Hunter's Moon (44 page)

“Naturally.”

Artie was behind them a few paces. CJ looked back to check on him. He moved with grim determination, though CJ could see that the older man had grown weary and was close to being exhausted.

This business had pushed CJ and Artie’s campfire revelations to the side, but as they’d hunkered down in the cave, CJ had considered some of it, and he did so again now. Despite how easy it was to call Artie
Pop
, it was still difficult to process. Artie Kadziolka had loved his mother, and they’d had a son together, even while Dorothy was married to George.

As if he could read CJ’s thoughts, Artie raised his head and met CJ’s eyes, and for a moment a warm smile replaced the man’s pain.

CJ started to say something, but then stopped himself. This small acknowledgment would have to suffice. If they got out of this thing alive, there would be plenty of time to talk about things. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.

He started to look away when he saw Artie’s eyes snap wide. Half a second later he heard the report. Before CJ could react, Artie fell, landing like dead weight on the uneven ground. CJ stood frozen, looking down at Artie, and what got him to move was the cloud of dust that exploded near his own right foot, followed by the booming sound coming from the east.

He dropped to a knee and grabbed Artie’s arm, ignoring the bloody mess of Artie’s shoulder. He swung the arm around his own neck and was gratified to feel Artie’s hand close on his shoulder. A second later Dennis was on the other side, and between the two of them they lifted Artie off the ground.

With his gun over his shoulder, and after a quick glance at the forest below them, CJ and Dennis guided Artie toward a cluster of boulders sticking up like misshapen teeth from the mountain’s surface. Their progress was slow—much too slow— and CJ flinched when a portion of the rock where they were headed suddenly vaporized.

When they reached the cover of the rock no one was more surprised than CJ. All but the first shot had missed, even if the one round that had connected had done its damage.

CJ and Dennis lowered Artie onto his side, and Dennis went to work with a knife, cutting away the tangled coat and shirt fabric enmeshed in Artie’s ruined shoulder—a jumble of polyester, blood, and torn skin.

“D-do you have any b-bandages?” Dennis asked CJ.

CJ shook his head.

“How’s it look?” Artie asked. His voice was weak, but CJ thought he heard a sliver of humor running through it. The hardware store owner didn’t have to see it to know it was bad.

“Not bad,” Dennis lied.

“Which is good because we have to move,” CJ added.

Artie started to answer but a cough came instead. When he recovered, he shook his head. “You both need to get out of here,” he said. “You can’t outrun them dragging me with you.”

CJ would have none of that. He found his leverage and, signaling to Dennis, they brought Artie up, bearing his full weight until Artie found his footing. Without another word, they started off, cutting across the incline, keeping behind the rocks as much as they could.

CJ knew they had a head start of less than two hundred yards, judging by how long it took to hear the sounds of the shots. That distance would evaporate quickly.

George and Graham were ready to move before Richard finished his cursing. After the final missed shot, Richard had held the gun out at arm’s length, looking at it as if it had betrayed him.

“I think it was when that dog hit us,” Richard said. “He damaged my gun.”

“The dog was nowhere near your gun,” Graham said. He’d watched while CJ and the others disappeared behind the rocks. Their helping Artie would slow them down; Graham would have them within the hour.

“They won’t get far. Not with Artie hurt,” George said, echoing his son’s thoughts.

At that, Richard ran a hand though his thinning hair. “Let’s get them then, and be done with it.” He swung the Weatherby over his shoulder and strode past the others.

Graham and George exchanged a look—one that seemed to convey a growing uncertainty. Even if they were able to finish what they’d come here to do, there would still be loose ends, things that threatened to expose them. Their window of opportunity to have pulled this off without anyone knowing was closing, if it wasn’t gone already. The thing about having one’s choices stripped away, though, was that it bestowed on a man a stoicism that made the pursuit of the singular path easier than it might have been.

George started walking, with Graham watching him, watching until the old man disappeared between the pines. A chill caught Graham, ran up his spine. He drew a breath and then released it, the visible vapor of it carried off on the cold wind.

After a time, Graham followed his father.

Twin headlight beams swept across Graham’s truck as another car pulled into the service station parking lot. For an instant bright light illuminated Daniel’s face and he had to fight an urge to slump down in the seat. He half watched as a family emptied from the sedan and went into the store, two tired children trailing a man and woman whose body language told Daniel that they were at some point in a long ride and were tired of each other.

Besides their sedan, Graham’s truck was the only other vehicle in the lot, and it had been that way the entire twenty minutes since Daniel had arrived here. Whoever was working the counter had come to the window twice to give the truck a once-over, and Daniel knew it was only a matter of time before the guy became suspicious enough to call the police. The problem, as Daniel saw it, was that since this was the only open business for miles in any direction, his only other options were to continue driving in circles or park on the side of the road, neither of which seemed like better choices. Eventually he would attract a cop’s attention, and once that happened, everything would fall apart.

It had been a moment of stupidity that had kept him from putting the truck in reverse before CJ got close enough to see him. Once Graham’s brother had seen his face—well, they’d had to go all in.

It angered Daniel to have his carefully cultivated career now hanging on the outcome of a gunfight he couldn’t witness, much less participate in. Graham and his family were playing out Daniel’s future somewhere out there, in the shadow of the mountains, while Daniel could only serve as witness to a snot-nosed brat sucking on a juice box.

But if his vast experience in the underbelly of the political machine had taught him anything, it was that one must always retain a bargaining chip. He reached into the back seat to retrieve his briefcase. Setting it on his lap, he popped it open and pulled out a thin metallic-looking object that bore a resemblance to a sleek calculator. He found a cord and plugged one end of it into the device and the other end into his cell phone. That done, he touched a button on the digital recorder.

He dialed the number. Weidman picked up on the first ring.

“It’s done, Mr. Weidman,” Daniel said.

Weidman absorbed that, and Daniel didn’t concern himself with what the man might have been thinking. He knew Weidman had liked CJ, that it was a serious thing to kill a man—two men. But the kind of money riding on Graham’s election brooked no obstacles.

“Alright,” Weidman said. There was a pause, and Daniel could imagine him looking at his watch. “Why did it take so long?”

Daniel ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have to act this part out. “There were a few complications,” he said.

“What kind of complications?” Weidman pressed.

“CJ ran. And it took Graham a while to track him down.”

Another period of silence passed, during which the family in the sedan pulled back onto the road and headed south, and then the clerk came to the window a third time. Daniel knew his time allotment had run out and so he fired up the engine.

“But you say it’s done,” Weidman said, seeking confirmation.

The fact that he’d asked annoyed Daniel. It suggested a man without the conviction—the decisiveness—Daniel had thought him to possess. It made him sound weak.

“Yes,” he said. “CJ’s dead and his article won’t be published. Your investment’s safe.”

Little else remained to be said and the call ended soon after. Daniel set the phone on the seat, stopped the recorder, and slipped it and the cable back into his briefcase. It was his doomsday scenario—something for the federal prosecutors if things went that far. If somehow they got out of this mess unscathed, Daniel would reclassify it and add it to his collection to perhaps be used at some point in the future.

Sr. Jean Marie had spent a lifetime listening to God. Rather, she’d spent it listening
for
God. In the mass, in the flowers that made up the convent’s garden, in the prayers of her sisters, even in the tears she often witnessed from hurting parishioners. She was convinced that God’s voice was everywhere, permeating His creation, and anyone could hear Him speak if they learned how to listen.

What helped, she’d always thought, was getting into the habit of holding up her end of the conversation. She reasoned that if God could take the time to talk with her, the least she could do was to talk back. Toward this end she kept up a near constant stream of dialogue with the Almighty, even if those around during these exchanges felt that they were rather one-sided affairs. To her, though, it seemed that God listened, that He laughed at her jokes, shed a metaphysical tear when she confessed her hurts, and stood in the face of her anger when such came bubbling to the surface.

She understood, of course, that there was a danger in anthropomorphizing the Creator of the universe, but she’d never felt as if her soul was in need of chastisement, despite the fact that Father Joseph had muttered something about pantheism.

The tenor of the conversation could change on any given day. On Tuesday the sister might feel content to rest in the peace that God spoke to her as she pulled weeds from around the hostas. On Friday she might feel as if the Lord wanted to discuss theology, and she’d spend the afternoon reasoning out a piece of doctrine, asking Him to clarify the sticky points. Yet there were other times when she felt the presence of God—the voice of God—so strongly that she couldn’t do anything but stay silent and listen to what He spoke to her heart. Today was such a day, and it had hit her the instant she opened her eyes.

She recognized straightaway that what God was telling her was something that required much prayer, so she’d spent the first hour of her day on her knees, still in her pajamas. It could be difficult to pray without specifics, but she had long ago concluded that God knew the specifics of every situation in a way she couldn’t understand. So if He wanted her to pray, she’d pray, and He would use her heartfelt, if indirect, petitions for His purposes.

She prayed this morning with a fervency she hadn’t experienced in quite some time, and she prayed for every kind of hurt she could think of, every faithless soul and every desperate situation. And as she prayed she did not doubt that God would hear those prayers. After all, He was used to listening to her.

Chapter 36

CJ was exhausted. Artie had been able to carry some of his own weight, and thankfully the bleeding had slowed. But CJ and Dennis had been propelling the hardware store owner along for more than thirty minutes. CJ’s chest ached from the exertion.