William Krueger - Copper River

“Donna?” Ren said.

“For a little while, I’ll be Donna Walport. It’s a name I use sometimes when I don’t want people to know my real name. I have a few of those.”

“Like an alias?”

“I prefer to think of it as a cover name.”

“Aunt Donna,” Ren said, trying it out. “That’s all right with me.”

Cork wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t see another way. “Stay close to her, Ren, and follow her lead. And be careful what you say.”

“I will,” the boy promised.

“Don’t worry,” Dina said. “We’ll be fine.”

But he did worry. He watched them go knowing there was a great gulf between what Ren bravely believed he was capable of and what the reality of the situation might force on him. The boy would have to walk a tough line, holding to the truth here, embracing a lie there, all under the cold eye of people with badges and uniforms. It was a lot to ask. Not many adults could pull it off.

Except that Ren had something most others did not. He had Aunt Donna.

The constable’s office was on Harbor Avenue, sandwiched between the Ace Hardware store and Kitty’s Cafe. An old, narrow, redbrick one-story, it had a desk area up front and two holding cells in back accessed through a heavy metal door. Ren had been in the jail area before. His mother and Constable Ned Hodder were old friends, and Ned had once locked Ren in one of the cells to give him a sense of what it was like to be incarcerated. Ren was just a kid; it had been a kick. That was before his father was murdered and cops became the enemy. Ren wasn’t even certain his mother had spoken to Ned Hodder since his father’s death.

They parked Ren’s ATV in front of the building and walked inside. The constable was at his desk, writing in a small lined notebook. As soon as the door swung open, he shut the notebook and put it away in the top desk drawer. When he saw Ren, a big smile dawned on his face.

“And here I thought it was going to be just another boring Sunday.” He stood up.

In his video collection, Stash had a movie called Anatomy of a Murder that Ren had watched with him one rainy Saturday. The movie was pretty good. It had been filmed not far from Bodine and starred a guy named James Stewart, apparently a big-deal actor in his day. The constable reminded Ren of that guy. Ned Hodder was more than six feet tall and lean. For an adult-and a cop on top of it-he had an easygoing approach to most things. He was straight when he spoke to you, though he sometimes stumbled around for the right words. And every feature of his plain face seemed to tell you that he wouldn’t lie to you even if his life depended on it.

Every year Hodder confiscated the illegal fireworks that folks brought with them when they came up from Wisconsin, where such things were legal. He stored them in a locker in the basement beneath his office. Every Fourth of July, just after sunset, he enlisted the help of the town fire marshal and, in Dunning Park right on the lake, set off all those pyrotechnics to the delight of most everybody in Bodine.

Last summer, he’d arrested two members of a band playing at the Logjam Saloon for urinating in public. They were young musicians without a lot of money, so he’d offered them a deal. In lieu of a night in the city jail, the band put on a free concert in Dunning Park. It turned out they knew a lot of old swing tunes, and folks ended up dancing on the grass and having a fine time. Ren was there with his mother, and it was one of the few instances since his father died that he’d seen her look happy.

Hodder came from behind his desk and extended his hand toward Dina. “Don’t believe I know you. I’m Ned Hodder. How do you do?”

“Fine, thanks. I’m Ren’s aunt. Donna Walport. Ren here has something pretty awful he needs to tell you.”

“That so?” Hodder bent a little in Ren’s direction and looked serious. “What is it?”

“Charlie’s father,” Ren blurted. “He’s dead.”

“Max? Dead?” The constable straightened up. “What makes you think so?”

“I saw him.”

“Where?”

“At their trailer, a little while ago.”

“How do you know he’s dead?”

Ren began to shiver. “Somebody, like, smashed his head in.”

“Where’s Charlie?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t there.” He went on shivering. He couldn’t stop.

“A little while ago, you say. How long?”

“Half an hour.”

Hodder put a large comforting hand on Ren’s shoulder. “You mind going back there with me?”

Ren didn’t like the idea at all, but he said, “I won’t go inside.”

“I won’t make you, I promise.”

“All right.”

Hodder looked at Dina again. “Ren’s aunt, you said. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“My dad’s sister,” Ren put in quickly. “She lives in San Francisco. I never get to see her. She’s visiting us for a few days.”

“Ren’s mom is at work,” Dina went on smoothly. “I didn’t think he should come here alone. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you. Be there for Ren, you know?”

Hodder thought it over briefly, finally shrugged. “I guess that would be all right.”

They took the constable’s black Cherokee, which looked to be quite a few miles past warranty. Ren sat huddled in back. He didn’t want to be going where they were going, but he hoped it might help Charlie somehow. Hodder asked him some questions on the way: why he’d been at the trailer, how he’d got inside, if he had any idea where Charlie might be. He pulled into the weedy gravel drive and parked behind the old Toyota pickup that belonged to Charlie’s father. He turned off the engine and said, “Wait here.”

“Constable?”

He turned to Dina.

“Do you ever carry a weapon?” She nodded toward his empty belt.

“Not generally. I keep a shotgun in the trunk, but honestly I’ve never had occasion to use it. I carry a pocketknife that comes in handy once in a while.”

“Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if she found his approach rather quaint. “Have you ever been at a murder scene?”

“How do you know it’s murder?”

“You think he bashed his own head in?”

“I’ve never been at a murder scene,” he admitted.

Hodder got out and approached the trailer with caution, turning his head as he scanned each window in front, looking, Ren supposed, for some movement out of place in a trailer home with only a dead man inside. He mounted the steps and reached for the screen door.

“Constable,” Dina called from the Cherokee. “You might want to put on gloves before you touch anything. At least, that’s what they do in the movies.”

Hodder glanced at his bare hands, then at the door handle. He pulled his pocketknife from the pouch that hung on his belt and unfolded the blade, which he used to open the door. He disappeared inside.

“Andy Griffith,” Dina said with a shake of her head.

“Who?” Ren asked.

“Forget it.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Have you ever been to a murder scene? I mean in your work and stuff?”

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Ren. I used to be with the FBI.”

“FBI?”

“Yep.”

“But not anymore.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Long story.” She’d been staring intently at the trailer, but now her intense green eyes settled on Ren, and he felt himself grow warm under their scrutiny. “Why don’t we talk about it over a beer sometime.”

It took a moment for the smile to grow on her lips, and then he understood it was a joke and he smiled, too.

“I’ll buy,” he said, feeling good, feeling special.

Then he looked back at the trailer and stopped smiling.