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

the evening news. The phone rang in the middle of the weather report.

Don Karson’s conscience, working out ground rules: “Karl Talme teaches English at the high school. He’s the guy Chris pulled the gun on. Maybe you should talk to him. Use my name.” Karson hung up.

It was a crooked road that wound through Maston County and a man needed a few crooks of his own so as not to lose his way.

Harry methodically searched for something to drink, down on his knees going through the kitchen cupboards. Finally he stooped over the garbage can and extracted the Jack Daniel’s bottle. An amber corner winked at him through a scum of damp coffee grounds.

The veins on his strong right arm popped out tight as he squeezed the sturdy glass and wrung the few drops onto his tongue.

32

Gunshots woke Harry at dawn. He rolled out of his covers, put his hand on the shotgun, and went to the window. Just hunters up on the ridge. The fog had cleared off and enough sun slipped through the clouds to breathe orchid into the steam drifting across Glacier Lake.

He put the coffee on and paced. His insides churned cold and his nerves were on their knees, whiskey beggars. Stay ahead of it. He glanced at the bearskin on the wall. Time to give Emery a tweak in his den.

192 / CHUCK LOGAN

At 8 A.M., he called the Maston County Sheriff’s Department and asked to speak to Lawrence Emery.

“He ain’t here. He’s out hunting,” said the deputy.

“Tell him it’s Harry Griffin. I’m at the Maston lodge.”

Harry spent two hours splitting and hauling wood to shake the cramps out of his muscles. The phone rang and he jogged inside.

Emery set the tone immediately. They would talk around Chris.

“You know, Griffin, there’s some people up here willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but after that stunt you pulled Tuesday…”

His voice was sly, weary sounding.

“Is it against the law to serve divorce papers, Sheriff?”

“No. But the timing sure as hell is bad judgment.”

“Am I still part of an ongoing investigation?”

Emery sighed. “What’s on your mind, Griffin?”

“I want my rifle back.”

“What?”

“It’s still deer season. I have a valid license and I want my rifle back to go hunting.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“If there’s no legal reason for you keeping my rifle, I want it back.”

“The BCA has your rifle for running ballistic tests. It’s routine in a gunshot death. Common sense should tell you that.”

“So you’re still investigating the shooting, huh?” Emery didn’t answer. “Well, I can get another rifle. Any reason I can’t go hunting then?”

“You got in mind deer or people?”

“The Klan came through on snowmobiles the night of the funeral—”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard. You wanna press charges, come down to the station.”

“Don’t want any drunk snowmobilers having a serious accident, is all.”

“Put on some coffee. You an’ me’s going to have a little talk.”

The coffee was ready when the Wrangler tires of Emery’s HUNTER’S MOON / 193

Blazer slushed to a halt in the soot in front of the lodge. Jerry sat in the passenger seat.

Harry went out to meet them and decided to put Chris on Front Street, in perspective. He nodded to Jerry and faced Emery. “I know Chris was your kid and whatever else can be said about you and me in that regard, it leaves you with a hell of a conflict of interest.”

With chilling nonchalance, Emery ignored the comment. He inspected the war zone in the drive and grunted, “Deadly fuckers, they killed the porch.”

“I need a police report to file my insurance on the Honda,” said Harry.

“Awright,” said Emery. He needed some coffee. His face was poached with fatigue and part of his red-eyed stare could have come from peering into the miserable wet woods for a whitetail, but the scent of morning whiskey squeezed out from peppermint breath mints.

“You been getting enough sleep, Sheriff?”

“Fuck you, Griffin. Go home. Go huntin’ someplace else.”

“Nah. Think I’ll stick around,” said Harry.

They entered the lodge and Jerry assumed the quiet presence of a German shepherd, boots spread, thumbs hooked in his pistol belt.

Emery shrugged off his Mackinaw and looked around. He wore a Pendleton shirt, khaki trousers, and Sorel boots. The trousers were damp to the knee with snow. He stared at the BUD IS A FUCKER

graffiti scrawled next to the fireplace. “Was going to get Becky out here to clean that up but you being here and what happened at the funeral, probably ain’t a good idea.”

“Karson was here. He said Becky’s dropped out of sight.”

“She runs off. Had to go to the Cities and get her once. She’s around here somewhere.”

“Girl off alone?”

“She’ll turn up.”

Harry pointed to the bearskin on the wall. “What do you want to do about that?”

“Leave it. Goes with the place.” Emery’s casual demeanor 194 / CHUCK LOGAN

set Harry’s teeth on edge. He decided that was the method Emery had adopted to use on him.

“You like to shoot bears?”

“Used to. They got be a nuisance, coming into town after the garbage. Messing with the fishing trade. Got so I didn’t like them.

Then after I bagged that guy on the wall I was camping out at the other end of the lake and this big storm came up. Damn if this bear didn’t run right into my tent and chase me out on all fours. Bear run one way. I run the other. Big crack of lighting and this dead maple blew over and fell slam on my tent right where I was sleeping.

I liked bears ever since.”

“Uh-huh,” said Harry. Emery’s rustic charm concealed spread steel jaws.

Emery moved silently in that disturbing light way of his up the steps into the den and sat at the table. Jerry shifted his position, maintaining his two-step distance. Emery slapped down a sheaf of computer printouts. “Know what I got here?”

“Uh-huh,” Harry poured coffee and held up the pot toward Jerry, who did not move a muscle in response.

“Story of your life from a police