Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

“I thought it worked pretty well,” Raven said drily. “Thanks for stepping in, Mr. Paquette.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” Puck said. “If I’d known Cochise here had your back — ah hell, now what?”

Siren howling, strobes flashing, a village patrol car roared into the lot, screeching to a halt at the ramp. Constable Chabot scrambled out, tucking his nightstick into his belt.

“Mr. Raven, you’re gonna have to come along with me.”

“For what?”

“Assault, for openers. Tay Maggert’s on his way to the hospital with a broken nose and his kneecap kicked halfway off.”

“I was on my own property and he came at me. I just defended myself.”

“Mr. Stegman tells it differently.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Erin said, stepping out onto the deck. “But we all saw it and you work for the village, Constable, not for the Stegmans.”

“There were a dozen loggers with him,” Puck said. “If you don’t wanna take our word for it, ask them. They may work for Stegman but I doubt they’ll lie for him.”

“I’ll question them later. Right now, Mr. Raven’s coming with me.”

“I don’t think so,” Chunk said quietly. “You have no warrant and no cause to make an arrest. So maybe you’d better do like the man says and question the other witnesses. Because nobody’s going anyplace with you. Unless you think you can take me, too.”

Pachonka’s hands were in plain sight. There was no obvious threat and Chabot was armed. But he read Chunk’s dead eyes. And that was enough.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, swallowing. “I’ll talk to the others, check out your story. But if I don’t like the answers I get, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” Beau said.

“You two aren’t fooling anybody, you know,” Chabot said. “I ran your names through the Law Enforcement Intelligence Network. You’ve both been arrested a half-dozen times.”

“Wrong,” Pachonka corrected. “We’ve been detained for questioning a few times. Neither of us has ever been arrested for anything.”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“They must have liked our answers.” Pachonka shrugged. “Because here we are.”

“You were involved in a shooting a month ago in Iowa.”

“Jesus, Constable, can you read your own damn reports? Beau was the victim in that shooting. We ring the guy’s buzzer, he fires a round through the door that puts a hole in Beau, then blows his own brains out. How is that our fault?”

“Maybe it’s not,” Chabot conceded. “Maybe what happened here today wasn’t, either. But you two aren’t just innocent bystanders.”

“Never said we were,” Pachonka said.

“This isn’t over,” Puck said after the constable left. “Those boys came out on the short end today but they’ll be back. The way they see it, the bay is theirs. If we’re gonna work here through the winter, we need to iron this out.”

“I offered the town new ramps,” Raven said. “They aren’t interested. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Lemme think on that. Meantime, maybe you’d better think about seeing a doctor.”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not. You’re bleedin’ all over your damn shirt.”

“Oh my God,” Erin said. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“In my truck,” Puck said. “I’ll get it.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” They were in the office, Raven watching as Erin quickly rifled through Shea’s red emergency kit, taking stock.

“I’m a licensed practical nurse, paid my way through grad school working in the Samaritan Hospital E.R., Detroit. Take off your shirt and sit on that table.”

Beau thought about cracking wise but the set of her mouth was so grim he passed. Eased out of his shirt instead. After wiping her hands down with disinfectant pads, Erin turned to face him. And hesitated, eyeing his tattoos. And his rock-solid frame.

“What?”

“You work out.”

“Sometimes.”

“A lot,” she countered, peeling back the adhesive strips holding the surgical pad in place. “Most guys with tats like yours are fresh out of jail. My. Your wound is more like a gash than a puncture. What did he shoot you with?”

“ .38 Smith. Punching through the door deformed the slug, slowed it down.”

“Lucky you,” she said, dabbing up the blood oozing around the plastic clips that held the gash closed. “Looks like it hurt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And why did the gentleman shoot you?”

“He didn’t say. I suppose he was afraid.”

“Of what you’d do to him?”

“We couldn’t do anything to him. Some states don’t recognize gambling debts at all and taking losers to court is bad publicity for the casinos.”

“Then what can you do?”

“Realistically? All we can do is talk. Sit down with the guy, figure out his situation. If he wants to pay, we can work out an arrangement. If he doesn’t, we can have him barred from every casino in the country. For most deadbeats, getting barred is a blessing.”

“And it takes two guys like you and Pachonka to deliver this blessing?”

“Intimidation is part of our game,” he admitted, meeting her eyes. “We want the deadbeats to pay. They owe the money to the Native people and compared to what’s been stolen from us, it’s spit in the ocean. When they win, we pay them. If they lose, we expect them to make it good. But if they welsh, we don’t have all that many options.”

“If that’s true, why did he shoot you?”

“He gambled away money he’d embezzled from his church. He was facing disgrace and probably jail time. So he shot me and then killed himself. With his wife and kids in the next room eating Cheerios. Nice business I’m in.”

“What he did wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not. But like the man said, I wasn’t an innocent bystander, either.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been shot,” she said, touching a scar on his rib cage.

“Actually, it is. That one was mortar fragment in Beirut. Got these two when our Hummer hit a mine in Iraq.”

“And these?” she asked, frowning at a thin arc of keloids along his collarbone.

“Cigarette burns,” he said evenly. “After my mom took off, I bounced around in foster homes. Some were pretty bad. Beirut was better.”

“You’re a beautiful man, Mr. Raven. These scars are... a crime.”

“I didn’t put them there.”

“No. But I’ve got a feeling you earned most of them. The bleeding looks worse than it is. You tore one of your clamps loose, but the wound’s still closed. The next time you’re mad at somebody, try beating them at chess.”

“I’ll do that.” As she straightened, he reached out, cupping her cheek with his palm, reading her eyes. She met his gaze just as openly. Curious. Unafraid.

“Is something happening with us?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you come back? Really? From what I’ve heard, your childhood was miserable here. Why is this building so important to you?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I definitely won’t unless you tell me. Please. I want to know.”

“All right, maybe I owe you that. When I got shot in Iowa, I was in the hospital for a week. Nothing to do but lie there. And think. What Maggert said about my mother—”

“That was vile.”

“But it might be true. All I know about her is what I can remember from when I was six or seven. From the odds and ends I recall, I think she probably was a prostitute. And maybe a little slow, mentally, I mean. I know we were dirt poor because we were staying in the fish house with my grandfather. The gutbucket man.