Hunter's Moon (40 page)

“So you stay mad at just about everyone else,” Artie said, and while he delivered that accusation with a kindness intrinsic to everything he said, it was no less pointed. After a while he added, “Now, I know I’m speaking out of turn. I’m just your boss. But, son, I’ve never seen such a decent sort with so many chips on his shoulder.”

CJ was caught more off guard by Artie’s comments than he was by Sr. Jean Marie’s similar theme, because out here he’d been lulled into a place where his guard was down, where he’d been unprepared for a discussion about such weighty things. Yet even as he’d argued with Sr. Jean Marie, he knew that at least part of what she’d said was correct. He was still of that mind-set, and he was less willing to stir things up with Artie. Still, there were things the older man didn’t know about—extraordinary circumstances.

“There’s a difference between forgiving a dog for taking a sock and forgetting the wrongs people have done to you,” CJ said. “Besides, a dog can’t apologize.”

“Maybe so,” Artie said, “but does it really matter if people do either?” When it looked as if CJ would object, Artie cut him off. “Trust me, I know some of what you’ve been forced to carry around. Not all of it, but some. Most everyone in this town does. But you don’t need someone to ask forgiveness before you let go of anger. The letting go is for you, not for anyone else.”

CJ didn’t have an answer except to marvel at how his dark secret was there in the collective consciousness of the town—how this thing he thought had been his in truth belonged to everyone. So instead of speaking, he went back to eating his lunch. Artie too seemed inclined to drop the subject, as if everything he thought needed saying had been said.

After a while, Thor emerged from the woods and he wasn’t carrying the sock. He approached the campsite, tail wagging.

CJ shook his head, uttered a chuckle, and tossed his dog a piece of fish.

Chapter 32

Julie walked in without knocking, wondering what she would do if she found Graham in the house. Meredith had told her Graham was gone and that she didn’t expect him back tonight, but it would be Julie’s luck to have him here while she tried to comfort the woman he’d struck.

She heard the television on upstairs and suspected the kids were up there watching cartoons, so she walked through the living room and into the kitchen where she found her sister-in-law. Meredith was in the midst of some food preparation affair that looked as if it required a lot of space, more than the usual number of pans, and lots and lots of flour. The air was filled with a fine mist of the stuff.

“Are you cooking for the VFW?” she asked.

Her attempt at humor earned her a half smile. Meredith had a roll of dough in her hands. She slapped it on the flat surface of the kitchen’s island and began to pound it with her palms.

Were this someone other than Meredith—a woman she knew well, with whom she’d shared births, deaths, and other important moments—she might have remained at the edge of the kitchen, allowing the scene to play out as it would. Instead, Julie crossed to Meredith and gently lifted the woman’s hand from the dough. Julie saw the bruise just before Meredith collapsed into her arms. Julie let her cry, and if the kids heard anything, they didn’t come downstairs.

After a time, when Meredith had cried herself out, Julie made them each a cup of tea, and the two women sat at a table in the breakfast nook while Meredith told her the whole story. It all seemed surreal to Julie, who was having a difficult time wedging Meredith’s account into the mold she’d built to hold her impressions of Graham. Even so, she didn’t doubt her sister-in-law. She’d seen too much in the way of Baxter behavior to discount that things had taken place just as Meredith said.

“So where is he now?” Julie asked.

She suspected he was at the house on Lyndale—hopefully ravaged by guilt.

“I don’t know,” Meredith said. “All he said was that he wouldn’t be home tonight, maybe not even tomorrow.”

“Is he over at the house?”

Meredith shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. The only thing I do know is that wherever he is, he’s shooting off a few rounds.” At Julie’s questioning look, Meredith added, “He called Richard and then left. He took two of his guns with him.”

When an hour later Julie left Meredith, she did so suspecting that her friend was going to be okay. Meredith wasn’t the sort who would subject herself to continued abuse. She would get herself and her kids out of there if she thought there was any danger of a repeat occurrence. Julie had offered up her own home if need be.

For some reason, though, what Meredith had said about Graham taking his guns bothered her. She lived in a region of the country where guns were like kidneys, never far from their owners. The fact that Graham had left with his guns, that he might be letting off some steam at the house, shouldn’t have bothered her. So why she found herself taking the newly paved road up the hill was something she couldn’t explain.

Graham’s truck wasn’t in the driveway when she pulled up. She sat in her car in front of the house and watched for any sign of life, but all seemed quiet. A minute later she was heading back the way she’d come. She glanced at the clock and figured that Jack was probably home by now, but she knew he could take care of his own dinner.

She thought about calling Ben. What stopped her from doing so was that she didn’t know what she would say to him. She had no idea what it was that was bothering her—what it was about Graham leaving the house with his guns after having hit his wife that made her stomach ache.

When she reached for her phone she didn’t fully realize it was Abby’s number she was dialing until it was ringing. Abby picked up on the second ring.

“Abby, is Richard there?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, until eventually Abby said, “No. He and Graham left around noon. Said they were going hunting.”

She hung up with Abby, and once she’d reached the turn at the bottom of the hill, she aimed the car toward home. She tried to analyze what it was she was feeling, except that each time she tried she ran into a dead end. Graham and Richard had every right to go hunting. In fact, the thought of either man not taking every available opportunity to go out into the woods was an odd one. So what was bothering her? Hunting ran in the Baxter blood. After all, CJ was hunting with Mr. Kadziolka.

It was that thought that carried her back into her subdivision, and that thought that caused her to pull over, leaving the engine idling. She couldn’t have told a cop how long she’d been sitting there had one rolled up and inquired. Her mind was engaged in some strange gymnastics and she couldn’t put her finger on why. It kept returning to Graham and Richard out hunting, and CJ and Mr. Kadziolka doing the same. It wasn’t much later that she remembered the article CJ was writing—the wicked smile he’d given her when she asked about it.

This time she called CJ. His number went directly to voice mail, which meant that either he was out of range or the phone was turned off. She ended the call and then sat there in her car, wondering what she should do. While she hadn’t known Dennis before CJ came back to Adelia, she now had his number in her speed dial.

“H-hello,” he said.

“Hi, Dennis. This is Julie.”

“Oh, h-hi, Julie.”

Julie thought she heard another voice on Dennis’s side of the line. It sounded as if Dennis had cupped the phone and said something. Then he was back.

“S-sorry about that,” he said.

“That’s okay.”

She didn’t say anything else for several seconds and she could feel Dennis growing confused and uncomfortable. She didn’t blame him. She was CJ’s married ex-girlfriend, after all. She took a deep breath, debating whether or not to apologize for disturbing him and end the call. Instead she listened to whatever it was in her stomach that, to this point, had kept her from going home.

She decided to tell him everything—about Graham hitting Meredith, about Graham leaving with the guns, about CJ’s article.

Dennis absorbed all of it, and when she was done, the silence on the other end of the line possessed a qualitative difference.

Finally, Dennis said, “I’ll check on him.”

And then he was gone.

Three shapes moved through the trees like shadows, the sounds of their passing muted against the aural backdrop of the forest. The sun was near gone, and the growing dark made them indiscernible from the pine trees.

Graham was on point, and while he couldn’t hear either his father or Richard behind him, he knew they were there. When Daniel dropped them off a half mile back so that they could enter the forest, Graham was worried about how his father would handle himself. What they were doing was the province of young men. But so far, George had proved him wrong. His footfalls were as quiet as Graham’s.

Artie’s mistake was sharing his itinerary with several of his regular customers. Once he’d done that, it became a simple matter for Graham to decide the best place. Meachem made the most sense, since Artie and CJ planned to be there for a full day at least; and the fact that there was only a single campground on the lake made them easy to find.

The clear sky and bright moon were allies as Graham picked his path toward the lake. Depending on the setup of Artie and CJ’s camp, Graham might get a clear shot without having to leave the cover provided by the woods.

He stopped when he saw the fire—just the faintest glow carried around the tree trunks. Seconds later, Richard and George were with him.

“Sixty yards. Maybe seventy,” George whispered.

Graham didn’t answer. He left his father and Richard where they stood and worked his way through the trees a dozen paces to his right, until his line of sight opened up and he could see the whole of the fire. He fixed his eyes on the spot and then stood like a statue, letting the time tick by until his eyes grew accustomed to the new light, until he saw a shape move beyond the flames. He watched awhile longer and could make out only the one shape—no way to know whose it was.

He went back the way he’d come and rejoined the others, who hadn’t moved from their places. He shared a look with his father—one purposed to either avert or confirm what they were about to do. The old man answered with a grim smile, and only then did Graham allow himself to feel the solidness of the Kimber 84 rifle in his hands.

He started walking toward the fire, slower now. They couldn’t see him in the trees—not from where they were, not that close to the fire. But when death approached, Graham knew it gave off a scent, a particular feel. He didn’t discount the possibility that either one of them might feel the threat coming, even if they couldn’t see or hear it.

As he walked, Graham looked for his line—the corridor through which he would shoot—but the staggered trees kept it from him. He thought they were at around thirty yards now, and he wondered if he would have to come out of the forest, or at least set up at its edge. But when he took another step, he found the corridor. He fought the instinct to pull back; he froze instead, trusting in the darkness. He took and released a breath, counting to ten, then moved back until the thick trunk of a tree blocked the campfire.

“They’re both at the fire,” he whispered once George and Richard reached him. “At nine and twelve.”

When his father gave him a questioning look, he said, “I don’t know which one’s CJ.”

Richard cradled his rifle in his arms and slipped off his gloves. Graham saw that he was sweating, even in the cold. There was a fevered look in his eyes. To Graham it looked like hunger. Richard was an expert shot. Given a few seconds to set, breathe, and squeeze, he never missed. That was why he was here.

Graham drew in a deep breath and caught George’s eye. The old man leaned in. There was bourbon on his breath.

“Let’s get it done,” George said.

After a pause, Graham nodded.