Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1) (17 page)

29

It was cool and still inside the lodge. Faded yellow
gaslight entered through the frequent wide windows
and landed on the hardwood floor in rectangular sheets. Gun locked the door behind him and stood
near a window. The pistol shot had been a bad turn;
other guards, posted on Hedman’s borders, would be
on their way. They might waste a little time waking up
Horseley and Bondy, but not much.

After a minute the grounds around the lodge were
still quiet, and Gun switched on the four-cell beam
and flung it around the room. The gray Hedman elephant straddled the couch and leered into the eye
of the light. Pregnant goddesses glowed in ivory,
fertile forms on ebony tables. Gun didn’t know exact
ly what to look for, some sign of Mazy or a destina
tion, but he knew he wouldn’t find it here. Not in
Lyle’s museum.

An arch framed with leather-laced tusks led Gun
into a wide hall with doors to the right and left. The
right door opened into a factory-sized kitchen large
enough to feed a safari, and probably the elephant. The left door showed only a narrower, carpeted hall,
with a sculpted walnut door at the end of it. The door was unlocked. Gun opened it and switched on a light.

The room was no more than a small private cube, covered on the walls with African spears and
diamond-oblong masks. A round blue pool took up
most of the floor, surrounded by fur-covered pillows
of every shape and species. Gun snapped a switch on
the wall and the pool roiled up into foam, fogging the
air.

“Damn,” Gun said out loud. On the opposite wall a
long peach nightgown hung from the point of a
stone-tipped spear.

Upstairs he located Hedman’s monstrous master
bedroom, an affair made comic by the presence of two
separate single beds pushed against opposite walls.
More interesting was Lyle’s study, which contained a
fat oak desk piled with papers and a well-scribbled calendar. Gun studied the calendar by flashlight: no cities, no flight times, no plans. He tried the drawers.
One was locked. It gave under an angled kick, and Gun dug down to the bottom through file folders,
newspaper clippings, letters. As he closed it, some
thing rattled. On second look he pulled up a plastic-
cased videotape. The hand-printed label said,
The Art
of Persuasion.
Gun pocketed the tape, shaded the
light, and descended the stairs.

Reinforcements had arrived. In the gaslight a stoop
ing cluster of khaki jumpsuits worried over Horseley
and Bondy while several fanned out to points near the
river. Evidently they reasoned that whoever jumped
the guards took immediate leave, instead of staying around. Gun was glad he’d hidden the boat.

He left the lodge by a dark back door that serviced
the kitchen. The sounds outdoors were panicked:
pounding steps searching the bank, face-slapping and grumbling as the two guards came groggily around,
quick shouts faintly distorted by breeze. The tiny
pointed scent of gas whetted Gun’s sense of smell, and
dimly across the meadowy slope he could see the shape of a squarish thatched building.

The guest house. If Hedman hadn’t held Mazy in
the lodge, she might have been billeted there. It was
going away from the river, but the gas lamps were
fewer here, and so were the guards.

He crossed the meadow in a fast stomach crawl,
avoiding the patches of weak light cast by the lamps.
Behind him he could hear activity in the lodge, the swearing of sentries. He looked over his shoulder.
Windows blinked on, burned in outrage for a few seconds, and were extinguished.

The guest house was locked, but Gun still gripped Horseley’s key ring, and he hit it right on the second
try. If the guards were sacking the lodge now and came
up empty on the riverbank, the guest house would be
next. Gun didn’t bother to search the first floor.
Weren’t bedrooms always on the second?

Mazy had been here. The upstairs suite connected
two bedrooms with a bath and a kitchen that smelled
of spilled champagne. In one of the rooms Gun’s
flashlight exposed a closetful of clothes, Mazy’s size.
The bedspread had been yanked in a hurry over
humps of blankets. On the stand beside it lay the long red finger of a candle, tipped over in mid-flame, dots
of red wax spattered over the wood. Gun searched the
drawers of the ebony dresser. They were empty except for a wallet-sized photograph. Gun picked it up. It was
a picture of himself.

The other bedroom held less of interest. At least at first glance. Geoff’s clothes were squeezed into the
closet and dresser drawers, and a long robe hung from
a quarter of the high four-poster bed. Gun noticed the

bedspread, an African print quilted Minnesota-heavy,
made into hospital corners. It looked unslept-in. Then
he saw what was lying on top of it.

A single sheet of paper, triple-creased, with letter
head and a few sparse lines of type. Against the dark
bed the paper glowed in Gun’s beam. He seized it,
blessing the conscientious travel agent who’d dutifully
sent an itinerary to the travel-bound Hedmans.

They were in Canada. The agent specified that
holders of six tickets were entitled to flights via
Northwest to Calgary, Alberta. They’d gone yesterday morning, rising west out of Winnipeg, out of his reach.
Gun scanned the paper for a return date and came across another piece of information. Only five of the tickets were of the round-trip variety. Someone was
staying behind.

A scatter of approaching shouts muffled through the
glass made Gun douse his light. He peered from the
window but could see no one. Then the door down
stairs slammed open and a stormtrooper rush of boots
washed over the floor.

Gun tucked the itinerary into a canvas pocket, then
unlocked Geoff’s bedroom window and slid it wide.
The guest house was a high-ceilinged structure, true to
the Hedman sense of the grandiose. Gun grasped a corner of the bed, dragged it six feet to the window’s
edge, and tied the arms of Geoff’s robe around a post.
Draped from the window it cut six feet from the fall. Gun lowered himself to robe’s length, pushed off the
outside wall with his toes like a rappeler, and let go. He rolled ball-to-heel-to-butt on impact, and by the
time he reached the river and reeled in his boat, the
needles of feeling were beginning to shiver his feet.

30

Home. One-thirty
a.m.
He turned on the power on his
thirteen-inch color television, jammed the cassette he had found into the VCR, and stood flat-footed in the
middle of the living room floor.

The picture clarified.

Mazy was sitting at a table in a dimly-lighted room,
her back straight, arms resting confidently on the
carved wooden arms of the chair. On her face Gun
recognized the defiance he had struggled against for years. Now she was using it on Lyle Hedman, who sat across the table from her, tapping his long fingers on
the tabletop. His lips were moving but there was no
sound. Gun quickly stepped forward and turned up
the volume, but all he got was a noisy fuzz that
masked a low mumble. Mazy shook her head, half
smiled, and crossed her arms in front of her. Hedman
lifted both his hands in a kind of plea. He leaned
forward. He seemed to raise his voice, his face jerking with the movement of his lips, and Mazy turned away
from him. As Lyle continued to speak, he aimed both his index fingers at her and the arteries stood out on
his neck. Mazy rose from her chair.

Out of the shadows at the back of the room a figure
appeared, stepped forward. It was Geoff. Lyle spoke again, and Geoff nodded for Mazy to sit down, which
she did. Lyle leaned back in his chair and with his
joined fingers made a hammock for his chin. Geoff sat
down on his father’s side of the table. For several more
minutes Lyle continued to speak, his eyes on Mazy,
his manner easy and confident. Then he stopped and
Mazy gave him a decisive shake of the head.

Now Lyle lifted a single finger and his lips formed
the word Watch. He raised his chin and adjusted his
gaze to the rear of the room. Mazy turned to see what
he was looking at. Two men entered the room. One
was handcuffed and blindfolded and being led by the
other, who wore the same style of green jumpsuit as
the guard Gun had taken the .38 away from.

Hedman said something to the man in green, who
nodded and backed his prisoner up against the light
blue wall. Mazy turned and shook her head at Lyle.
Her lips said no. Her face had gone slack and her eyes
were wide, bright with unfocused confusion. Gun
dropped into a crouch and pressed the palms of his
hands against the floor for balance. He watched the
screen and saw Lyle nod his head once and Mazy
swing around. The man in green raised his pistol and aimed it at the blindfolded prisoner. From what Gun
could tell, the weapon was a .45-caliber revolver. It jumped and jumped again. The man in the blindfold stiffened out against the light blue wall, two roses
opening on his chest. His head rolled off his neck onto
his right shoulder, and the weight of it seemed to settle
the matter of which way to fall. He crumpled to the
floor. Mazy looked around at Lyle, who shrugged once
and licked his lips, then at Geoff, who was hiding
behind his own hands. She looked back at the man
who had fallen, then up at the light fixture above her head, and finally straight into the camera. Intelligence
had fled from her face and left nothing to replace it.
No fear, no terror, nothing at all. Gun reached out and
touched her, received a small electrical shock from the
screen. Lyle stood up. His jaunty posture was not
congruent with the scene he had witnessed. He and
Geoff ushered Mazy from the room.

As soon as they had gone out, the man in the green
jumpsuit looked into the camera and stuck out his
tongue. He clapped, then reached down and offered a
hand to the dead man on the floor, who accepted it
and was pulled to his feet, then freed from his cuffs.
The two of them commenced a celebration of their
performance, mugging for the camera, laughing, and
smearing blood on their faces. Gun remembered
Freddy Cheeseman’s words:
Now he’s got to go all the
way.

Five minutes later, in bed, not feeling tired but
aware that he needed sleep, Gun prayed for the
courage to make proper use of the destruction rising
in his soul.

31

The telephone rang early, blistering Gun’s sleep. He
rolled from bed and answered the phone in his shorts.

“Gun, it’s Carol. Where in God’s name have you been?” Carol’s voice sounded stretched and wired.

“Carol. I’m glad to hear you.” Gun reached for a
kitchen chair and sat. “Kind of early, though.”

“I’ve been trying to get you all week. Damn it, Gun,
you worry me.”

“I’m fine.”

“And lucky. You didn’t happen to be playing
around Lyle Hedman’s place last night, did you?”

“Me?”

“God, I knew it. I knew it was you. The two guards you took out said they got jumped by a gang. Sheriff
Bakke believed them, I think.”

“How do you know about this?” Gun checked the
kitchen clock. “It was only about six hours ago.”

“I was up early,” Carol said. “I’m a journalist.”

“Off the record, then, I’d appreciate your silence on
this. Did Bakke tell you anything?”

“Yes. He said apparently there were three or four of
you, that you hunted through Hedman’s lodge and
guest house, that you didn’t steal a blessed thing, and
that all of you escaped into the rushes.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. One thing you aren’t, Gun, is clutzy. You
didn’t drop any clues.”

“But Bakke has sworn to ‘make the pinch,’ right?”

“His words exactly. How did you know?”

“Couple of times a year folks around here get
broken into. He always says that.”

There was a breath of silence on the line before Gun
said, “Carol, I might be needing some help with this
whole mess before too long. I don’t know that for sure,
can’t even say what kind of help it might be. Can I call
you?”

“You know that, Gun.”

“I’d like to think you’re in this for more than your
dislike of Hedman.”

“You know that too, Gun,” Carol said.

“I’ll call you soon,” said Gun. “Hedman’s taken
Mazy out west. Western Canada. And I don’t think he
plans to bring her back.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. The whole
Hedman clan is gone, and I think they intend to get
rid of Mazy on the trip.”

Carol took a sharp breath. “Gun, I know you don’t
want to hear this, but it’s time to get the cops into the
picture. If they’ve taken her out of state, maybe we can
get some agency help.”

A window patch of reflected sunlight moved across
Gun’s wall, and his ears picked up the crunch of tires
on gravel.

“Where did they take her?” Carol said. ‘“Western
Canada’ is a little vague.”

“Someone just drove in,” said Gun. “I’ll call you
later.”

“Please, Gun. We might not be able to do all this
ourselves.”

“I’ll call you. I promise,” said Gun. He tried to hang
up tenderly.

An angular blue sedan was sitting in the yard. Gun
was startled when the driver slid out and stood,
looking uncomfortably around. It was Reverend Barr.
He was evidently in no hurry to get to the front door.
Gun had time to find his pants.

“Good morning, Gun. I, ah, see you’re up.” Gun
had opened the door just as Barr raised his knuckles
to knock.

Barr was clerically dressed in humble brown tweed
and a cardboard collar. His shoes were scuffed and
apologetic, matching his manner. “Early church starts
in another hour or so,” he said, his eyes sliding down to his wristwatch. “I thought maybe we could talk.”

“Go ahead,” said Gun.

Barr’s eyes met Gun’s for an instant and from there
bounced to his chest, forehead, the doorframe, and background behind. They settled at last on a small mole on Gun’s cheek, below his right eye. He looked
earnestly at the mole. He said, “
This doesn’t come easily for me. I’ve a confession to make.”

Gun crossed his arms.

“You know what my stand has been on Loon
Country,” Barr said. “No secret, I’ve been
pushing for it. But things have gotten beyond my
control. Beyond anyone’s. And I think your daugh
ter’s in deep trouble.”

Gun felt a willful violence rising up inside, a frosty

wish to reach forth and close Barr’s windpipe. He
said, “Talk fast.”

Barr’s gaze dropped from the mole to Gun’s chest, which was nearer his eye level. His voice withered. “It
was Lyle Hedman’s idea,” he said. “Lyle came to me months ago. Flattered me. He said I had the biggest
parish in Stony—that’s true—and told me I needed a
new church. A big one.”

“So?”

Barr reddened over the white collar. “Maybe you
don’t understand. There are better ways of making
money than ministering, especially out here in the
sticks. But there aren’t many better ways of gaining influence. A big church can mean big power
, if you work things right.”

“So you sold out to Hedman. Should that surprise
me?”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re surprised,” Barr said,
forgetting his humility.

“Get to the point. Where’s Mazy?” He thought, Say
Calgary, Reverend, and we’ve got a match.

“Everything started turning bad when Rutherford
got killed,” Barr said. “He was our ace. Old friend of
mine from the Cities. Used to come to my church
down there.”

“Mazy,” Gun said.

“Please, let me finish. I need to do this.”

“Be quick, Reverend.”

Barr lowered his eyes to Gun’s knees in theatrical
penitence. “Rutherford accomplished his purpose. He helped us bring Tig Larson over to our point of view.”

Gun nodded.

“Then Lyle got worried. Said we were in trouble if Rutherford ever talked. Said we had to be sure that
wouldn’t happen. He had it done.”

“Why are you talking to me? Why aren’t you talking
to the cops, if you’re so damned sorry?”

Again Barr’s weak composure split. “Goddamn
you, Pedersen, I’m telling you because it’s your own
kid that’s going down next.”

Gun’s arm snapped out in a backhand rope that
knuckled Barr across the temple. The minister reeled
on his feet while Gun gripped his stiff collar and
pulled him up on his toes. “Confession’s over,” he
said. “Now you tell me where Hedman took her, and tell me right, and tell me fast. Or I’ll put you on the
other side before you’ve been forgiven.”

“Calgary,” Barr slurred. “West of there. Then to
British Columbia. Hedman told me the whole family
was going, sort of a honeymoon trip in honor of Geoff
and Mazy. Only Mazy’s not coming back.”

Gun lifted Barr two inches off the ground. “She’s
coming back,” he said. “Alive. And healthy.” Still
holding him by the collar, Gun dragged the minister
into the house. Barr sat at the kitchen table with his
face in his fingers while Gun fished for an atlas. When
he returned and laid it open on the table, a pink,
porous knoll had raised on Barr’s temple.

It was fairly simple on the map. From Calgary Barr
traced a highway across the border into British Co
lumbia, and a winding provincial road into the higher
territory of the Canadian Rockies.

“It’s the only cabin for a hundred square miles,”
said Barr. “I pray to God you can find it in time. I
wish I had a daughter, Pedersen.”

“Lucky for her you don’t.” Gun picked Barr out of
the chair by his collar and skidded him to the door.
“Enjoy your last sermon, Reverend. And stay around.
I don’t want to have to come looking.”

“I’ll face whatever I have to,” Barr said. He man
aged a sore smile that looked right under his lump.
“I’m ready to make amends. As soon as you get back.”