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

a messy divorce to a hasty doomed marriage. What if it was just Chris, stoned, on his own, flipping out?

What if I shot too fast?

And Bud was covering for him. Harry jerked his hand from the doorknob as if it were hot.

He dressed, pulled on an orange vest, the fancy lightweight boots Bud had bought for him, and loaded the heavy .45-70. Walk it off in the woods.

But the tiny corkscrew of doubt had grown to meat grinder pro-portions in his brain. Boring in. Whatever Ginny Hakala’s agenda, her memory had been warm on his skin when he awoke. Gone now—what they called mood swings in the sobriety business. He stood in the door for long minutes scanning the blackened debris in the driveway.

Serious shit, man. Shots fired.

The air shattered into a million snowflakes that pinwheeled down and blotted over the fire rings in the slush. Harry stepped into the driveway and tilted his head up and opened his mouth. Felt a snowflake touch on his tongue.

Used to do that when I was a kid.

How much of life had I tasted at sixteen? Adolescent confusion going to black. That’s what I gave to Chris.

This moody shit was what he got for playing with the booze.

Today is day one. One day sober.

The snowmobile trail stretched before him. He knelt and tried to pick out Becky’s footprints. Fresh snow blurred the crusted impres-sions. He got up.

Annoying damn snow. Got at his eyes. He blinked away moisture.

Heavy walking even in the light boots.

Exhausted before he’d even started. He found a stump and sat down. Snow. No sun. Black trees. Lonely out here.

HUNTER’S MOON / 215

He imagined the forest without humans in it. A world in which he did not exist.

And he could see how people went crazy. They suddenly just felt the full weight of life. Scales and a ruler. How much you weighed and how far you’d travel between the womb and the grave.

Christ. Maybe this is how Bud feels all the time. Fuck that.

Bring him up here to help some kid, Bud’s nutty idea. Well, he’d helped all right.

Damnit! I saved his life. Kid was going to shoot him again.

What would a father do? Take a chance and yell, “Son. Put down the gun.” Try to talk, like Bud. Take a bullet and still try to talk?

He imagined it. Yelling in his loud voice that could carry over gunfire. Put it down, kid!

Harry shook his head. There hadn’t been time. He couldn’t see it going down any different. He took off his gloves and touched his eyes. Not the snow. Tears.

Snap! Branch breaking in the crisp air, maybe 30 yards away…

Movement in the trickling snow. Oh boy! Off balance. Not ready for this. Something cutting through the brush. Deer? Not a deer. A person watching him? A running figure blurred in the trees.

“Hold it,” yelled Harry, bringing up the rifle.

Becky Deucette froze in place, mired in knee-deep snow. She wore a black watch cap, a baggy army field jacket, and the damn dirty wind suit.

Harry lowered the rifle, shouted, “It’s all right, kid. I won’t hurt you.”

She bolted and Harry ran after her.

She made it to the snowmobile trail and opened her stride. But she was clumsy in snow-pac boots. Still, no way he could match her encumbered with a rifle. She opened the distance.

He dropped the rifle and sprinted. Their gasping breath came closer together and she slipped and lost her balance in a skid. Harry tackled her.

216 / CHUCK LOGAN

They rolled over, grappling, and he felt her young body burn through her clothes as she arched up and her pelvis bucked, trying to throw him off.

“Knock it off,” panted Harry.

He pinned her arms into the snow and surged down. She struggled, knees gripping, trying to get her feet under her.

She clenched her teeth and her dark eyes smoldered and hair twisted across her face in greasy unwashed ropes. Squirming, she almost threw him and her jacket rode up, and shoving her back down, Harry tore her bra. One of her breasts bobbed in the cold.

The skin there was incredibly smooth and the brown aureole puckered and the nipple was rigid as a coffee bean.

She strained, laying the whole length of her body against his. She thrust one last time with her hips.

“You gettin’ a hard-on?” she sneered. “You’re stronger than me.

You could make me do anything you want.”

He released his hold and sat up, straddling her, holding her in place with his thighs. He panted, “You been watching me, haven’t you? At the lodge last night.”

“I saw you with that whore Ginny Hakala, you bastard!” She swung a short chop with her right hand. Harry caught it in his fist.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was out running. I run along the snowmobile trail.”

“Not dressed for running.”

“Dress any way I want.”

He let her hand go and she struggled up on her elbows. “Get off me,” she said. “I’m getting snow down my pants.”

He pulled away and stood up. “Do yourself up,” he said curtly.

Her eyes raked his face. “Get a good look?” she asked.

He pushed her back up the trail while she worked with her bra and pulled the coat around her. He picked up the rifle.

“You going to shoot me?” she asked in a petulant tone.

Harry rolled his eyes and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

“Where we going?” she asked.

HUNTER’S MOON / 217

He pushed her ahead of him. “Get you warmed up. Then I’m taking you back to your mom.”

“She’ll love that,” she said contemptuously.

He pushed her. “Move.”

She jammed her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders, with the collar of the jacket turned up, she looked like a smart-ass kid getting arrested for the first time.

When they got inside the lodge he asked. “Where is she?”

“Depends what time of the month it is. Mom’s calendar’s got men on it instead of numbers.” Becky flopped down on the couch and folded her arms sullenly across her chest.

Harry found Cox’s number in the slim