November Hunt (19 page)

Thirty-five

I scrambled back onto
the steps and tried the door. Locked. I felt the top of the frame for a spare key and only succeeded in bringing snow down on my head. Monty pushed me aside and put his shoulder to the door. It didn't budge. He ran back to his truck and returned with a crowbar, which he slid between the lock and the door jamb. He grunted and gave it a heave. The entrance gave way. He rushed in with me on his heels. We flipped Carla over, gently. Her dishwater-blonde hair was matted to her face, and her mouth was slack. Unconscious and without her make-up, she looked much younger, vulnerable.

“She's breathing,” he said.

“Are there any wounds?”

“Not that I can see.” He patted her face lightly. “Carla.”

She moaned and shifted her head away from his hand.

“Her neck seems to be okay. Let's get her on the couch.”

I bent forward to help. “Cripes. Her breath smells like 100-proof rubbing alcohol.”

Monty nodded grimly, checking her face and arms for bruises and finding none. “You better put some coffee on. I'd say she wasn't attacked. She's on a fall-down drunk bender.”

Disgusted and relieved, I did as he suggested. I found the kitchen in the same state as the living room. I picked up as best I could while the coffee brewed, closing cereal boxes and stashing them in the cupboard, loading the dishwasher, wiping off counters. I knew how demoralizing it is to wake up painfully hung over with a messy kitchen to boot. When I returned with a steaming cup of brew, Monty had the front door closed and Carla awake, more or less.

“Here you go.” I handed her the mug. She took it, bleary-eyed, just another small town gal who drank too much. “Sorry about your lock. We thought you were dead.”

“Then what was your hurry?” She took a sip of the coffee. It was hot enough to burn her lips, but she didn't flinch.

I didn't see a reason to mince words. “I know your story. About what happened in '62. I think you're in danger now because of it.”

She shot me a face so comically puzzled that I'd have laughed if it wasn't for the seriousness of the situation. “Hunh?”

“In 1962, a Battle Lake woman was raped. The Four Musketeers were there that night, but a guy named Lyle Christopherson ended up going to jail for the crime. The woman was never identified in the papers.”

“And you think I'm her?”

“You're not?” Monty asked.

She laughed, and it turned into a smoker's hack. She took the reminder to heart and grabbed for a crumpled pack of Merit cigarettes. “No. I know the story too, but it's not mine. Clive told me all about it during one of his more talkative drinking sprees. He was one of them Musketeers. All four of them did wrong by that girl. Every one of them, including Tom Kicker. Clive made a point of saying Tom wasn't in on the worst of it, but he wasn't no prince either, not like he wanted people to believe. Clive said Tom tried to buy his way into heaven every day after that, whatever the hell that means.”

I slanted my eyes at Monty. He'd been right about all four of the Musketeers being involved, including Clive. He was standing, tense, his fists clenched at his side.

“So Clive admitted to the rape? Did he tell you the four of them
let another man go to jail for it?”

“He never mentioned that.”

“Who was the girl?” The question rose like thunder from Monty's chest.

“It wasn't me, and that's all I know for sure. Is there any more coffee?”

I took her mug and brought her back a refill. When I returned, Monty was at the front window, watching the snow channel. I sat next to Carla. “Did Clive ever talk about shooting Tom?”

“God, no. That's a subject we did not touch.”

“Do you think it was an accident?”

She checked out my face. “Of course it was. Tom was Clive's only steady friend. It was a terrible accident. It was a tragedy for Clive and a sad day for the whole damn county. Tom did good by people around here. I suppose it's the worst for his girl though, Hallie. I feel terrible for her, losing her dad like that and with no mom. Without her real mom, I mean. Clara.”

My heart felt as if a cold wet thread was being drawn slowly out of it. “What did you say?”

“Clara. Hallie's birth mom.”

Thirty-six

“Clive mentioned her once
or twice. Her name's real close to mine, is I guess why it stuck. I just think it's a shame that a woman can lose her father and be in and out of the hospital like that poor Hallie, and with her mother no longer around to comfort her. She died giving birth to Hallie. I'm sure her stepmom did just fine, but there's nothing like your real mom when life gets hard.”

I'd tuned her out after I heard the name. Catherine, Tom's ex, hadn't been certain of the name of the girl who had been raped. Carla, she'd thought. She'd been real close.
Clara
. Tom had married his victim and raised her child as if she were his own.
Clive said Tom tried to buy his way into heaven every day after that, whatever the hell that means.

Monty was at my side. “What is it?”

“We have to go.” Numb, I wandered outside. The air smelled a bit like steel, and the icy edges of plummeting flakes scratched at my cheeks. There was a total hush in the jaws of the snowstorm, an absence of sound that raised my hackles. Tom had told Catherine part of the truth, which is the main ingredient of all good lies. Clara had been pregnant by the rape, and a man had married her and raised the daughter. What he hadn't told her, of course, was that he was the man.

Monty followed me, making sure that Carla's front door closed tightly before jogging ahead to start the truck.

When I climbed into the vehicle, he told me he felt bad about her door. I didn't care. “Monty, I had it all wrong.”

“It was an honest mistake. I'll come back out tomorrow and fix it, when the snow lets up.” He started the truck and steered us onto the back road.

“No, I know the identity of the woman who was attacked. Her name was Clara, not Carla. Tom Kicker's first wife and Hallie's mom.”

An icy shoulder caught the truck and began pulling it into the ditch, but Monty fought back with a sharp turn of the wheel. “Tom Kicker married the woman he raped?”

“We don't know whether or not he raped her. You heard Carla. Clive said Tom wasn't in on the worst of it, although it appears he didn't do anything to stop it, either.”

“Holy terror,” he said. “What men will do.”

I rubbed my mittened hands together. It had grown cold in the cab. “The others must know that Tom married Clara, and that one of the three of them has a daughter.”

“That'd be a difficult fact to hide. So why kill Tom and Lyle now?”

Why is it that the truth is so obvious once you know it? “I told you Hallie's in and out of the hospital.”

“Right. Kidney problems.”

“Yeah. She said she's in the early stages of kidney failure.”

Monty closed his eyes in understanding. “She needs a kidney.”

“I'm guessing. And if I'm not mistaken, family is the first place
you'd look for a donation.” I wanted to smack my own head. “She'll
find out soon if she doesn't know already that Tom isn't her birth father.”

“Not her birth father, but the man who raised her. If he loved her, he'd need to tell her who her other potential matches would be.”

“Which explains the fight Hallie overheard between Tom and Clive, right before Clive shot Tom.”

Monty picked up the thread of my story. “Clive must have gone to Frederick and Mitchell to let them know what was in the pipeline. They pool their money and convince Clive to shoot Tom and then Lyle, leaving only the victim as their weak link. Clara. But she's already dead.”

“You think they'll stop there?”

“I wouldn't. Not if I'd come this far. Hallie may know about the incident, or find out one day. As long as she's alive, she's walking DNA proof of something three men have already killed to keep silent.”

“How fast can we get to Hallie's place?”

“I'm on it.”

Thirty-seven

From a driving perspective,
the only positive of a screaming blizzard is that it keeps everyone else off the highway. Even so, Monty crawled along at 30 mph, using the occasional road sign as visual evidence that we were still on the road and not four-wheeling through some field. Both of us leaned forward tensely, our heads unconsciously trying to arrive at our destination as soon as possible.

Monty stabbed on the radio.

“… worst blizzard of the decade. Mn/DOT has shut down Interstate 94 from Fargo to St. Cloud. If you don't need to be on the roads …”

He punched the button again to drown out the sound. “I'd pay money to be able to tune in a jazz station around these parts.”

“You could get a portable CD player, maybe.” He didn't respond. I found I needed to cover the animal howl of the storm, so I filled the air with inane chatter. “So you lived in Turkey. Is that where you learned to make hummus?”

“I lived all over.”

“But you or Jed, I forget which, mentioned that you learned to blow glass in Turkey.”

“That's true. I learned it in prison.”

I glared sharply at him. “What were you in prison for?”

“In Turkey, it doesn't take much. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That's all?”

“The pocket full of opium didn't do me any favors.”

“I see. Turkish prison as bad as they say?”

“A thousand times worse. Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. How old were you when you left Battle Lake?”

“Nineteen.”

“What'd your parents do?”

“Farmers. They owned nearly eight hundred acres in the county
and did very well by it.”

“Are they still around?”

“Dead. Came back for my mother's funeral and didn't leave, remember? I have one sister. She lives in Des Moines. I haven't seen her in years.”

I peeked at the road. Snowflakes attacked the windshield and headlights like tiny tentacles, sticking, confusing. “I'm sorry.”

His shoulders tightened. It might have been a shrug.

“Who'd you hang out with back when you lived here?”

“Always been a loner.”

“But you knew about the Four Musketeers.”

“Sure enough.”

“You never said if you were around in 1962 when Clara was attacked.”

“I was. I'd be mighty happy to see some justice done. I've always felt bad for that girl in the yellow dress.”

Watching him, I felt hot worms begin to crawl over my skin. How was it that I could have been so close to solving this mystery, but so horribly wrong? The newspaper hadn't mentioned the yellow dress. I hadn't told Monty about the yellow dress. I only knew what the girl had been wearing the night she'd been raped because Lyle had confessed it to me. Someone would have had to have been there that night to know.

Monty kept his eyes pinned to the road, his face tight under the ridiculous pompom hat. When I was in the secret room at the hunt club, I'd overheard that Mitchell hailed from Brandon and not Battle Lake, but I hadn't registered the importance of that fact. The Four Musketeers had all gone to high school in Battle Lake. Monty, not Mitchell, was the fourth Musketeer.

Thirty-eight

It was Monty who
had fled Battle Lake shortly after the incident, who knew too much about it, who had made sure to drive me tonight once he knew I was getting too close to the truth. It was likely even he who had placed the threatening phone call. He was the fourth Musketeer, the missing link, the man who had a record and a lot of incentive to not return to prison.

“What's the most difficult item you've ever blown?” My voice came out squeaky.

He shot me a glance. “Trees are hard. People request them a lot around Christmas.”

“What sizes do they come in?” I was inching toward the passenger door. I slid my mittened hand around the solid metal of the handle. As soon as we reached Battle Lake, I was jumping out, running to the nearest car or house and begging the owner to bring me to the police station.

Monty looked at me again. Ahead, a twinkle of light broke through, marking the Standard Oil gas station on the south edge of town. “It was the dress, wasn't it?”

“I don't know what you mean.” My pulse was knocking at the back of my throat with gagging force.

“I mentioned the color of her dress. It gave me away.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a handgun. It was long-nosed, a poison shade of silver, glittering in the dashboard lights. “My apologies.”

A wave of nausea-crested inertia threatened to overwhelm me. I forced myself to stay focused. “Did you talk Clive into shooting Tom?”

“I was there the night the suggestion was made and the check written.” He flicked his right turn signal and steered with the same hand, easing onto a back road to Hallie's. The black eye of the gun stayed trained on my face. “I'd ask you to move away from that door. There's no place to run. This town is asleep.”

He was right. The unplowed streets were virgin white, unmarred by prints, animal or vehicle. The heavy snow made it difficult to see farther than twenty feet. A person would be crazy to be out in a night like this. “How could he have done it? They were best friends.”

“Jealousy is an ugly incubator.”

“How about Lyle? Did Clive do that?”

“I'm afraid that was me. Clive got cold feet.”

I pictured the vehicles raised on car lifts in Lyle's garage the night he was murdered. How had I not recognized the old Ford pickup I was currently sitting in? The Jeep must have been a rental. “And you think Hallie is the only loose end.”

“Besides you. I'm sorry. That's the way it has to be. I'm not going back to the stony lonesome for anyone.”

I grabbed for purchase. “What about the statute of limitations?”

He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles of his left hand were white. “Doesn't apply when there's DNA evidence.”

“You'll get caught.”

He curled his lips. “I imagine someone will. My guess is Clive. He's already looking suspicious after Tom's death. This is one of his guns.” He tipped the pistol before retraining it on my face. “I used it to shoot Lyle, and left some of Clive's belongings at Lyle's. Freddie's got almost as much as I to lose. He'll never talk.”

“Hallie doesn't know. I'm sure of it.”

“Too many chances of her finding out with all those medical tests they run. We already covered that.” He pulled up in front of her grand old Victorian. The bay windows facing the street flickered with the glow of a fireplace. “Let's go. Quick will be better.”

I stepped out of the car, acutely aware of the gun pointed at me. I landed in snow halfway up my calf. The street was deserted. I could make out one street light on either side of me through the blizzard. The only sound was the mouse-soft footsteps of snowfall.

Monty came around the truck and stood behind me. “Come on.”

I started trudging with him at my back. I couldn't bring the devil through Hallie's door. If I yelled for help, though, I'd be shot. My survival instinct warred with reality. Better one dead than two, I decided. Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I pretended to fall, twisting to the side and away from the barrel of the gun. On my way to the ground, I shot out my foot, kicking toward Monty's knee. I heard the sickening wet sound of knee cap popping, and Monty toppled into the snow with a scream.

Frantic, I searched for his gun, but it must have landed underneath him. I tried to run, but the deep drifts handicapped me. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew it had to be away from Hallie's. All her neighbors' lights were off. If I risked one of their doors to find out it was locked, I was dead. I plowed through the snow toward the alleyway on the opposite side of the street. My navigation wasn't always true, but I was pretty sure if I followed it three blocks, I'd come out at the Rusty Nail parking lot. The bar would be open. I risked a glance behind me. Monty was dragging his leg 20 yards away and moving toward me with superhuman speed, a black demon in the howling snow.

A sob pushed out my lips and I forced my legs to pump faster. I felt the rush of the bullet past my ear before I heard the crack of it firing. I screamed in fear and zagged left, into the alley. I was out of his line of vision and prepared to bolt toward civilization when I came face to face with the wall of ice. The city had been storing the snow plowed from the street here. I was trapped.

“I'm sorry, Mira. I really am,” he yelled over the shrieking wind.

I whipped around and backed against the two-story snow bank. Monty stood at the mouth of the alley, his face screwed up in pain. He held the gun with two bare, shaking hands.

The shot exploded.

I screamed.