Steve Hamilton - The hunting wind

Randy shook me off and got in the passenger’s side. I got in, slammed the door, and backed up all the way down the long driveway to the street. I dropped the truck into drive and got us out of there.

I was already back on 1-275 when I finally looked over at him. He had his hands together between his knees. He was staring out at the hood of the truck.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I said.

He didn’t say anything.

“You scared that girl,” I said. “You really scared her. She’s all alone in that house and you gotta go freaking her out like that.”

He said nothing, so I let him just sit there. The interstate went down to one lane, so we had to slow down to a crawl. More construction.

“That’s her daughter,” he finally said.

“Were you listening to what she told you?”

“I don’t care what she said. That’s Maria’s daughter.”

I would have pulled over if I could have, but we were barely moving anyway. Two seventy-five has five lanes going north, five lanes going south. We were going south on the one lane that was still open while the construction workers tore the hell out of the other four.

“Randy, despite the fact that she told you she wasn’t, why are you so sure that she’s Maria’s daughter?”

“You’re the one who found the house, Alex. A housepainter named Leopold lives there. Is that just a coincidence?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“No,” he said. “No.”

“She’s what, sixteen years old? Seventeen? You haven’t seen Maria since 1971, right?”

“Right.”

“You haven’t heard from her? Or about her? You know nothing about Maria after 1971?”

“Right.”

“So that girl was born around what, 1983?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said. “That’s when Maria gave birth to that girl.”

I moved the car up another few feet. Then I stopped again. At this rate, we would be on 275 until September.

“Why didn’t she seem to know that, then? You’d think she’d know who her mother is, right?”

“She knew,” he said. “She was lying.”

I didn’t say anything. There were no words to say. The man was out of his mind. I moved the car forward another few feet.

“Alex, we have to go back.”

“Oh good God,” I said. “I can’t believe this.”

“We have to,” he said. “Turn around.”

“I’m not turning around.”

“Turn the truck around.”

“Randy, so help me, I am not turning this truck around. Not that we’re moving anyway.” I could have gotten out of the truck and taken a long piss against the back tire if I had wanted to. I watched a couple construction workers walk past us.

“I have to talk to her again,” he said. “Just one more thing I have to say to her.”

“What? What do you have to say?”

He paused for a moment. “I have to tell her that it’s okay. If she’s lying because her mother told her to, then I understand. That’s all.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You think Maria told her daughter to be on the lookout for you, just in case you came back thirty years later? She’s supposed to tell you she’s not her daughter to throw you off the trail?”

“I don’t think it would be exactly like that, no.”

“Why not? Maybe she called her this morning to remind her.”

“Alex, we turn around. We go back. I apologize to the girl. We leave. You take me to the airport and I fly back home. The end.”

I had another ten minutes to think about it, while the machines slowly turned four of the southbound lanes into something that looked like the surface of the moon. Finally, we reached an exit and I took it.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You apologize for scaring the hell out of her,” I said. “And then we leave.”

“You got it.”

“I had to do it,” I said. “I just had to try out one more thing. Call the paint stores. What a wonderful idea that was.”

We worked our way back to Telegraph and took that all the way back up to Nine Mile Road. There were some traffic lights to sit through, but it was better than 1-275. We found the same subdivision again, the same street, the same house. As we pulled into the driveway, we saw the same little red compact, and next to it a white truck with a rack of ladders in back.

“Looks like Leopold is here,” he said. “This is good. Hell, he might even remember me.”

“Well, we already know it’s not the same guy,” I said. “But I almost wish it was. Hi, remember me? I got lucky with your sister when she was nineteen.”

“Yeah, that’s funny, Alex.”

We got out of the truck and went to the front door. Randy stepped in front of me and rang the doorbell.

We waited.

He rang it again.

We waited.

Finally, the door opened. A man looked out at us. He was short and dressed in white painter’s overalls.

“Leopold?” Randy said. “Is that you?”

The man just looked at us.

“I’m sorry to bother you!” Randy said. “We were here earlier. We spoke to… um…”

The man opened the door. “You spoke to Delilah.”

“I don’t suppose you remember me.”

He looked at Randy. He had dark eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“I’m, um…” He cleared his throat and looked at his shoes for a moment. “Leopold, I’m actually an old friend of Maria’s. Your sister.” I stood there watching the whole thing, not quite believing any of it.

The man smiled. He opened the inner door all the way, and then he opened the storm door. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Please, come in.”

Randy wiped his shoes on the little mat, and then I did the same. I followed him into the house, and when we were inside, I got my first good look at Leopold. He couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds, but he had arms like a boxer. That’s exactly what he looked like, one of those tough little bantamweights.

He just stood there smiling at us. And then the door moved. Another man stepped out from behind it. He was younger. And a lot bigger.

He hit me once before I could even think about what was happening. I tried to duck out of the way of the next one, but he caught me on the side of the head. I went down with my ears ringing and a metallic taste in my mouth, a mixture of blood and adrenaline and sudden fear. I didn’t know what was happening to Randy at that point. I tried to get up. The man was standing above me, ready to hit me again, I was sure, so I picked a spot in the middle of his body and drove my shoulder into it. He gave ground, but not nearly enough. I felt hands on my neck. A grip stronger than human.

He’s choking me.

I grabbed at his hands, at his arms. Useless. You’re going to die right here, Alex.

No, there’s something you can do here. One way out. Somebody showed you this a long time ago…

I brought my right arm up and over his wrists, got as much leverage as I could, and then dropped to the floor. He went down with me, his forearms pinned against my chest. I heard him swearing. I felt his hot breath in my face. He drove his forehead into mine and pulled his arms free.

Did it work? Did I break his wrists? Before I could catch my breath, I got my answer. He hit me on the back of the neck with either one fist or both of them, or maybe it was an iron safe. It didn’t matter. I was done fighting back.

A hand on the back of my shirt. Another one on my belt. I am lifted or dragged or God knows what and then there’s a long flight of stairs leading down. I hit every one of them, five hundred steps or a thousand. And then I am at the bottom lying facedown on something soft. It is carpeting, thank God in heaven for carpeting at the bottom of the stairs and then I am out.