Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1) Read online

  Mazy worked her hands into the tight front pockets of her Levi’s. “I’m only using him to get at the story,” she said, then she left and the door slammed behind her.

  Standing at the sink, soapy wet hands hanging down at his sides, Gun watched his daughter walk toward her car. The sway in her stride was the same as her mother’s had been, and she held her head cocked a little to the right, as if listening to a quiet voice. It was a habit of hers since she was a small girl and suffered damage to her hearing from an ear infection.

  She started her car now, turned it around, and drove out of sight around the bend in Gun’s rutted driveway. He realized his phone was ringing.

  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 politician, 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 summon 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 supposed 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 editorials 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 typewriter. 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.”

&
nbsp; “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 leaving the game ten years ago, though, the feeling had been absent. Now it was back, and Gun was grateful for its return.

  6

  He went south on the lake road and headed into town. Stony, population 3415 according to the green sign at the edge of town, stood on the southern bank of Stony Lake. The year-round people lived in modest wood-frame houses, and most of them worked at the Hedman Paper Mill twelve miles to the east. The rest lived off the tourist trade in the summer and collected unemployment checks all winter.

  Two miles out of town he stopped at a small tavern nearly hidden by a dense stand of birches. Behind it the lake glittered. A neon sign blinked from a window, bright green: jack be nimble’s. Gun parked in the lot and walked inside. The walls were knotty pine, darkly golden in the weak light.