Hunter's Moon, Chuck Logan [i am reading a book TXT] 📗

it on the coroner’s report. Chris had cherries tattooed on his hip.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” muttered Jerry.

Harry turned to Mike Hakala. “So, Prosecutor, what do you think?”

Mike Hakala shook his head. “Fuck me dead! This goddamn thing won’t go away, will it?” He exhaled. “This…gun setup, that could be tampering with a state agency.”

Jerry hitched up his gunbelt. “Uncle Mike, I think we better have us a manhunt. Fast.”

Harry watched Mike Hakala pace while Jerry stood with his arms crossed; the more Mike speculated the more determined the expression on his nephew’s face became.

“You say he threatened Cox and Griffin last night?”

HUNTER’S MOON / 319

“We had to cuff him, Mike. Took all three of us.”

“And you let him go?”

“Jesus, I thought it was just a drunken piss-off, that he’d sleep it off.”

Mike pointed to the montage. “That ain’t no drunken piss-off.

That’s psycho shit. That’s…weird. And those pictures in the kitchen.

Jesse’s face cut out?”

“We gotta pick him up,” said Jerry flatly.

“Well, sure. What’s the charge?” Mike wrung his hands.

“How about he’s an armed, dangerous sonofabitch who’s out to kill every man who ever screwed Jesse Deucette? And I think Bud Maston is way up on top of the list,” said Jerry.

“How do I put that in a warrant?” Hakala laughed nervously. “I don’t know what this crazy shit means. Is there intent here? Does it prove anything?”

Jerry pointed down the room at the red grid traced over Bud’s smiling face. “Do I have to draw you a fucking picture? Don Karson’s out there just dying to give his theory of things to a reporter.

Hell, he spoon-fed it to Harry. And what if he’s right? History could be repeating itself here. Like Kidwell in Duluth. Or have you forgotten about that?”

“Christ, Larry and I are…friends. We were on the goddamn hockey team, went down to the state tournament together. We dated the same girls…you know how he keeps everything inside. I thought he’d get through it. I thought he was working on something—”

“Make a decision, Uncle Mike. It’s what we pay you the big bucks for.” Jerry put his hands on his pistol belt. “I sure as fuck ain’t going up against Larry Emery with nothing but good intentions backing me up!”

“He did that to your nose?” Mike asked Harry.

Harry nodded. “Cox saw it.”

“Unprovoked attack?” Mike asked Jerry.

“Well, he did mumble something about losing it when he looked in through Cox’s windows and saw Jesse coping Griffin’s joint.”

“Christ,” Mike Hakala put his face in his hands. Then he 320 / CHUCK LOGAN

looked up at Harry. “Maston’s been trying to get ahold of you. He left a message at my office. He’s in Duluth. Said you weren’t answer-ing the phone. He’s coming up here tomorrow—” Hakala glanced at his watch “—today, to go to court on a separation agreement with Jesse.”

“Could be a setup. We better get Jesse in to talk to.” Jerry shook his head. “You should have gone to a grand jury on Chris, Uncle Mike.”

“I know, I know.” Hakala took a breath. “This time if we err, it’ll be on the side of caution. First we get Larry.”

“The number. Where Bud’s staying?” asked Harry.

“Uh, left it at the office. Look. Jerry, you secure this place. Who’s dispatcher tonight?

“Billy Munger.”

“I’ll get Billy to wake everybody up. Get another guy out here to take pictures. Nobody disturbs this—”

“Two more guys here, and two out at Cox’s and four at the lodge.

Be straight with them. Tell them Larry’s wrong on this. And warn Maston off till we lock him down,” said Jerry.

“Okay. Griffin, we’re going to town. I’ll find that fucking message.

What else?”

“Becky Deucette,” said Harry.

“She’s all right, she’s with my crazy kid. They got some damn hideout up on the ridge.”

“Better find her, Uncle Mike, before Larry does,” said Jerry.

“Okay. Okay. Collect Becky. Arrest Larry.” Mike Hakala made dizzy swimming motions with his hands. “Jesus, we need more guys.”

“You gotta put it over the radio in plain goddamn view,” said Jerry. “Highway Patrol. Lake and Cook Counties. Hell, if we have to take him on in the woods—”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Mike Hakala, “I might have to call Rudy and ask for the National Guard.”

They went out the door and Jerry grabbed a radio handset and put out an all points on Larry Emery. One of the other HUNTER’S MOON / 321

deputies walked off a few steps and aimed a kick at a snow tire.

“Yeah, our Larry Emery,” Jerry yelled back at a query from the static.

Mike Hakala pointed to the Colt stuck in Harry’s waistband. “That thing loaded?” he asked. Harry nodded. “Keep it handy,” he said, stomping into the snowy night, pajama top flapping.

51

Hakala bobsledded his Ford Bronco down Highway 7.

“Live situation. Important to keep it simple. No time to figure it all out. First, warn Bud off till we find Larry. Second—Christ,” he giggled nervously. “Every shadow in the goddamned headlights…”

Harry eased the Colt from his belt and held it in his lap.

“Keep your eyes peeled, I saw that sonofabitch drop a deer at 400

yards with open sights once,” said Hakala.

Streetlights sieved the steady snow falling on Stanley’s barren streets and nothing moved except a cloud of exhaust that surrounded a Blazer running in front of the police station. Hakala opened the door to the police car and turned off the engine. Then he stormed through the door, yelling.

“Everybody out. We got trouble. Larry Emery’s off his fucking nut!”

Deputy Morris stood in the hall, parka open, sandwich to his mouth. Another tired-looking deputy behind the radio desk gave Hakala a deadpan once-over. “We heard. Jesse,” he said, shaking his head.

Hakala threw a set of keys at Morris. “Don’t leave your unit running with the door open, Morris.”

“Huh?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding at three A.M. in my fucking pajamas!

Extend all shifts. Go down the list. Wake ’em up and tell ’em to get in here. Shoot two men to Emery’s house to back up Jerry. Get two more out to Jay Cox’s trailer—you know where