Hunter's Moon by Chuck Logan (english novels to read .TXT) 📕

but you’re just a game,” he was talking himself into a rage, “just a soft-handed city guy. Go back down there and do whatever you do in some office. I’m only going to warn you once. This ain’t your affair,” he growled.

Harry wore a crazy grin as he stepped into the jerky pins-and-needles of a fight and felt his way toward the first punch. He reached over, seized the stem of the outboard motor and, with a shift of his weight, toppled the motor off the tailgate. Cox backed out of the way.

“You’re asking for it. I ain’t opposed to beating up on crazy people,” Cox warned. He slid sideways toward a big chainsaw sitting on a stump.

Cox’s eyes darted and he started for the chainsaw. Harry, faster, cut him off, scooped the big red Jonsrud up by the handle, hoped it had gas in it, and flicked the switch.

He balanced on the balls of his feet, the saw casually in front of him, one hand on the handle, one hand gripping the ripcord. Careful.

Don’t get gas on your new suit.

“I always wondered,” he shouted to keep his voice from shaking.

“Put one of these to a big new radial tire. Would it go hiss or would it go bang?” he yanked the cord and the saw

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whirred alive. He let the blade fall in a lazy are that stopped an inch from a rear truck tire.

“Watch it there, goddamnit,” Cox yelled, genuinely alarmed for his truck. “Those things are tricky.”

The rage in Cox’s eyes raced in a loop, as trapped as the necklace of steel teeth whipping around the chain bar. Might have to fight this man, but not tonight. He stepped back to give Cox room to walk to his truck.

Up close, in the brilliant headlights, Cox looked spooky as hell, but no longer scary. He looked…old. Tired. Breathing heavily with the strain of this confrontation.

For a moment they panted, measuring each other. Harry percol-ated with fear, but he knew it would vanish at the first blow. Cox’s hooded eyes showed confusion. Dry-mouthed vacant pain.

Harry cut off the saw and put it to the ground. He lowered his eyes and stepped back to let Cox leave.

Cox hauled himself up, one hand on a big mirror bracket, and opened the door of his truck. When the door opened, the interior light came on and Harry saw the butt of a deer rifle half out of the case suspended in the gun rack over the seat.

I need a gun.

Cox snarled, “You don’t scare me, you fucking faggot!”

Harry folded his arms across his chest.

Cox backed out of the driveway, one eye on his rearview mirror, the other on Harry. When the sound of the truck faded down the highway, Harry took out Bud’s key ring and went to the lodge.

He expected more of a mess. A tall stepladder was tipped over in front of the fireplace in a pile of sawdust and, like Bud said, the bowsprit carving had been removed from the beams above the fireplace. The new furniture in the den was gone, but the sound system, TV, computer, and trestle table remained. The bookshelves were undisturbed. The kitchen was tidy, the silverware still lined up in the drawers.

164 / CHUCK LOGAN

The head and one paw of Sheriff Emery’s bearskin dangled off the wall. Above it, someone had written in garish green spray paint: BUD IS A FUCKER!

He changed into jeans and boots and approached the sturdy oak gun cabinet next to the fireplace and found the heavy lock un-tampered with. Opening it, he saw a double-barreled shotgun, a 12-gauge pump, and an old lever-action .45-70 rifle. Ammunition was stacked in the drawer at the bottom of the rack. And something wrapped in a chamois cloth. A military Colt .45.

He pulled out the beautifully restored old Remington 12-gauge, searched in the drawer, opened a box of double-ought buck shells, and loaded it.

Back outside, he looked around. Nothing but the wind in the pines. Keeping the shotgun close at hand, he opened the pole barn, moved the pile of tools that Cox had assembled back inside, closed the sliding door, and locked it. Then he walked a slow circuit of the lodge grounds and paused to listen at the road. Convinced that Cox was gone, he switched on a flashlight and started cautiously down the trail between the log cabins toward the snowmobile trail.

He came to the frozen remnants of Becky’s ski tracks where they’d left the trail and gone overland. Slowly he paced them until he came to the place where Emery had stooped in thought. The crusted snow was pocked and wind-spoiled and the trail disappeared in the drifts.

Something moved. He shined the light into the thicket of pines and a sharp nasal snort—not human—brought him to tingling alertness. Something big in there. Harry backed away and retreated down the trail.

He started Bud’s Jeep in the garage under the addition. Almost full of gas and the tires looked all right. Then he took a look at the furnace and the fuse box and located three fire extinguishers.

Sleeping in one of the bedrooms was out. Too closed in. Averting his eyes from Chris’s room, he went into the master bedroom where Bud had slept with Jesse. A musky morning

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scent, faintly perfumed, lingered in the stale air. The king-size mattress was bare, the dresser drawers pulled out and empty. Harry knelt to the floor in back of the bed and found spilled candle wax, some curls of incense, and several tiny, yellowed butts of marijuana cigarettes.

He dragged the mattress and box spring down the hall and positioned them in front of the fireplace. Then he heated water, searched the cupboards, and found some Lipton tea. With a hot mug of tea, he went to the desk in the den and methodically searched the drawers. Jesse said she kept books, seemed proud of it. Maybe there was something written down he could use