Steve Hamilton - The hunting wind

So maybe I’d taken too many balls off the mask. That’s my excuse. Or maybe I was just born this way. Either way, sometimes I just do things without thinking. I usually end up paying for it.

I drove east, back across the state, toward the suburbs of Detroit. I knew the route well, having taken it twice already in the past few days. I didn’t think I could change anything. It was almost six o’clock at night. Whatever had been done had been done several hours ago. It was nothing more than curiosity at that point. That, and a sick sense of dread and something almost like fascination. I couldn’t believe they’d really done it. And I was sure they had. I just had to see for myself.

All that business about how her family had been there all day, breakfast on the beach, Leopold making pancakes, and about how Chief Rudiger had said he was going to take care of things. She’d told me all that for a reason. She hadn’t known I was with the chief the night before, didn’t know I would see right through it.

That’s what I thought about all the way down 1-96, then 1-275 to Farmington. I found the subdivision again. Corriedale Street to Romney Street. As soon as I turned the corner, I saw the two vehicles in the driveway.

The chief’s patrol car was closest to the garage, the long scrape still fresh on the passenger’s side. Harwood’s RV was right behind it. There were no other cars in the driveway, because, of course, they were all in Orcus Beach at that point.

I drove past the house, then doubled back and stopped on the street. I sat there and watched the house for a while. Nobody came or went. Nothing happened. As I sat there, it occurred to me that Whitley had done the same thing, maybe sitting in this exact same spot, watching the same house.

I sat there for at least an hour. A couple kids came down the street on their bikes. A few cars passed. Somewhere, a dog barked. Otherwise, it was a quiet, pleasant evening in the suburbs. The two vehicles sat in the driveway. I stared at the scrape on the side of Rudiger’s car, hypnotized by the shape of it. It didn’t take a fortune-teller to know something was very wrong in that house.

I should have left then. That’s what I should have done.

I didn’t.

I got out of the truck and walked up to the house. The beautiful April day was all but over, the warmth of the sun long gone. There were no neighbors outside to see me walking down the driveway to the front door. When I got there, I saw that it was ajar. I pushed it open and went inside.

Silence.

I went through the living room, then into the dining room.

No sign of life. Nothing.

The stairs. I knew these stairs. I went to the edge and looked down.

One wheel.

That should have been enough for me. One wheel. That’s all I needed to see. But I kept going. I took a step down. The stairway creaked. I stopped. I took another step. Another creak. With each step, I saw more of the wheelchair. It was turned onto its side.

It was empty.

I kept going, step after step. I saw a leg, then another. And then the blood.

Two men against the wall, each with one arm in handcuffs. The handcuffs going through the metal ring in the wall. The same ring in the wall, the same handcuffs. Two men. Whitley and Harwood. What is left of them. Each blown apart by a shotgun. This is what it looks like. Blood everywhere. The smell of death and blood. The pure evil sight of it.

Shotgun casings on the floor. Lying in the blood.

Look to the right. There is more. Chief Rudiger, the man I saw how many hours ago. The head destroyed now. Obliterated. All over the mirror behind him, pink and red. He is lying on the weight bench. The shotgun hanging from him onto the floor, one dead finger still caught in the trigger.

A piece of paper on the floor, one corner soaking up blood.

The chief wanted to call her. Those were his last words to me. He wanted to get up off the floor and call Maria. If he had managed to pull himself off the floor and call her, then what happened next? How long did it take her to see the opportunity? To see the whole scene laid out in front of her? It’s airtight. She calls Leopold. He wakes the entire family. They load up Leopold’s truck, Delilah’s car, Anthony’s car. The whole family goes to Orcus Beach in the middle of the night, just like Maria said. Is the chief already at Maria’s house when the family arrives? Maybe he is. Maybe Maria asked him to come, and somehow he pulled himself together and drove over there. Or maybe Leopold and Anthony had to go get him. Either way, the piece of paper is with him. Written in his own hand. He brought it with him, or it was there on the table when they picked him up. And the shotgun. Don’t forget the shotgun. They put him in the back of his patrol car, drive him back to Farmington. Two cars. Anthony following Leopold, who is driving the patrol car. It’s five in the morning then. Maybe six. Leopold has the chief’s hat on, just in case somebody sees him in the car. But it’s so early, there aren’t many cars on the road. When they get to the house in Farmington, they wait. Anthony parks the car down the road, of course. Only the patrol car can be seen in the driveway. Maria calls Harwood. She has his number now. She calls him and tells him to come to Farmington. Time to make a deal. Time to end this once and for all.

Which is exactly what they do.

After it is done, Leopold and Anthony drive back to Orcus Beach. The police will find them, of course. Three dead men in their basement, they’ll need to talk to them. An apparent double murder and then a suicide, the chief’s finger still in the trigger guard. Will the forensics man find something that doesn’t add up? What can you find when you’re dealing with shotgun blasts? How hard will they even look?

They’ll go to her, of course. To the whole family. They’ll have to talk to them.

Oh my God, she’ll say. It can’t be. The chief was such a good man. He told me he’d help me. He told me he wouldn’t let those men hurt me. But my God, Officer, I had no idea.

You’ve got your own story to tell the police, Alex. Your own little theory, with absolutely no proof. And yourself right in the middle of it. First you threatened Whitley and Harwood at gunpoint; then you ended up in Maria’s bed. Then you had a nightcap with the chief, at the bar and then back at his house, where you then knocked a shotgun out of his hands. And took the shells out. For all you know, your fingerprints are still on it. Unless you go lift that gun off the chief’s chest and wipe it clean.

Think about what you’ve got, Alex. This is the hand you’re holding if you try to make this whole thing come out differently in the end.

I made myself turn around and go back up the stairs. I didn’t have to read the note on the floor. I knew what it said. The words scrawled below the official seal, with the cannon in the sand.

“For Maria, and everything I wanted to believe.”

“Alex.”

I opened my eyes.

“Alex.”

I sat up straight in the hard wooden chair, feeling a sudden pain run down my neck and into my back.

“Alex.” His voice was low, like a whisper.

I looked across the room. Randy’s eyes were open.

“Do you need the doctor?” I said. I looked at my watch. It was after 11:00 P.M. I had gotten there at 9:00, just in time to catch the doctor writing out his charts at the nurses’ station. Randy had regained consciousness just after I had left that afternoon, the doctor told me. He still had some localized weakness on the left side of his body, but aside from that, he was doing remarkably well. They took the tube out of his throat and hooked up a minidose morphine drip. They had told him he had been shot, and that there was a county deputy stationed outside his door. He had been awake for a couple hours, but by the time I got back there, he was asleep. I sat down in the chair and did the same. Now he was awake again, and I didn’t know which question to ask him first.