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

underneath. Mats. A kerosene heater. There was a propane stove and a

HUNTER’S MOON / 389

cache of canned and freeze-dried food. Two five-gallon drums of water.

Hundreds of candles dripped wax stalactites down the crannied rock. Bud removed his gloves and opened a box of Blue Tip matches.

Harry stooped, grabbed Bud’s gloves, and stuck them in his pocket.

Bud began lighting candles and set the cave in motion. Frantic insect activity retreated from the light and cast crawly shadows and slowly the walls undulated into shape.

A neolithic Sistine of deer and bison arched above their heads.

Stick hunters with bows and spears.

Becky’s backpack lay on the dirty tatami mats. Bud shouted and his voice echoed in the cavern. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…” he turned to Harry. “So where’s the cops, rocket scientist?

That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Becky’s voice came from deep in the inky recesses. “How do I know you won’t kill me with an ax thing like you did Mom?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Bud. “Come out where I can see you.”

Harry poked him with the pistol and nodded at the pack. “Open it,” he ordered. Bud unfastened the flap, picked out the mask of Martin’s face, and held it in front of his own. “Pot’s light, Becky,”

he sang into the shadows. Bud slipped his hand into his pocket.

“Time to put in your ante.”

“Watch it,” warned Harry.

“Just some pictures, Harry.” Bud sprinkled the prints on the mats.

Laminated color ran wetly in the candlelight. “I have more, all X-rated. Back in Saint Paul, in the offices of Noble and Deal.”

Bud looked at them fondly and lined them up.

Variations of Chris. He lay on his stomach on the mattress, bathed in the glow of candles, looking over his skinny shoulder, a drugged smile smeared on his face. His narrow buttocks shining. The mask worn backward. Bud grinned, reached in his pocket and tossed another picture.

Becky—a sweaty two-six-pack-fantasy—thrust luridly naked on the spit of two adolescent penises.

390 / CHUCK LOGAN

Bud smiled and a tapestry of shadow creeped over his face. “Air-tight Rebecca. The apple never falls far from the tree, does it? You never really know people. Look at the expressions. That’s pure delight, beyond the limits. Chris gave me acid. Then we played spin the bottle. It started innocently with talk. Then you go to the right place. Create the right conditions and give your fantasies permission to come out. It could happen to anyone.” Bud bent his manicured middle finger against his thumb and flicked it forward. Chris’s picture skittered across the cave.

“Doing it with that murderous little creep was like putting a worm on a hook.”

Harry leveled the pistol between Bud’s eyebrows. Steady.

Bud raised his voice and leavened it with contrition. “Mike? Jerry?

Drunkenness is no excuse. I freely admit what happened here. And I’m deeply ashamed.”

Becky yelled again from the shadows. “Harry? What should I do?”

“What can we do, Becky?” shouted Bud. “Except tell the truth.

Let the courts decide.” He turned to Harry and whispered. “It’s the only way. You just have to submit.” Then he continued his confession in the loud voice. “He seduced me, Harry. Can you believe that?

My wife’s kid seduced me.”

The pistol shook.

“You can’t do it, Harry. Not when you’re sober. Not without provocation. Go on, try to pull the trigger.”

Harry explored the cushion of sweat against his index finger and felt the tiny grid on the trigger.

“You’re weak,” said Bud. “Like Martin was weak. Like Cox was weak. You have all these messy beliefs that make you a tar baby and get you stuck in the world. You’d all bumble over the cliff if people like me didn’t organize you.”

Harry swung the pistol and opened a gash in Bud’s cheek. “C’mon, you sonofabitch,” he rasped.

Bud staggered and held out his hands, smiling through a stain of blood. “I don’t want to fight you, Harry. I love you. I’ve always loved you. You proved your love when you saved HUNTER’S MOON / 391

my life. And you’ll learn to love me. I imagine it will be an awful trial. I’ll be your best and worst character witness.”

Bud paced, his voice by turns practical and dismissive. “I’ll take some hits for being easily manipulated. By Jesse. By Cox, by these feral children. Have to deal with ugly rumors about my military record. But that won’t be so bad in light of recent events, not like it would have been a year ago. Anyway, nobody really cares about Vietnam.”

Harry shoved Bud hard, knocking him back against the rock. Bud kept smiling. “I think a classic post-traumatic stress defense will work best for you. I’ll get anybody you want to defend you. I mean anybody. I’ll visit faithfully when you’re in prison. I’ve already provided for you. A generous amount has been put aside for you in lieu of the salary and retirement benefits you will lose. Even if something happens to me, you’ll be taken care of. More money than you could ever earn.

“And in prison you will learn obedience. That’s what prisons are for. To teach men like you obedience to other, stronger men.”

The pistol burned in Harry’s hand. Bud’s vivid eyes twinkled in the candlelight over the front sight.

“Poor Harry. All you had was one grubby little penny. Your pathetic honor and all the tough-guy illusions that go with it. Where are they, now? After Chris? That was your cherry, baby, and I got it.”

With a hollow click, the safety on the .45 snapped to firing position.

Bud wasn’t impressed. “You have to make up your mind. Either you kill me or obey me.”

“Fight, you bastard,” said Harry in a calm voice.

Bud laughed. “Mother Goose. You still believe in all those American nursery rhymes. Even Chris, that crippled little fuck, thought he was on a mission from John Wayne.” Bud clucked and shook his head and even now he could not resist giving a speech. “All of you kiddies, all the evidence to the contrary, you keep perpetuating the myths, keep paying your taxes and returning