Hunter’s Dance (29 page)

XLVI

Must not the outcast go the way of outcasts?

The layer of wet snow, combined with the recent unaccustomed traffic to Greg Carlson's camp, hadn't rendered the road any more easily traversed. The ruts were deeper, the sand looser, and the low stretches had degenerated to hog-wallows. McIntire kept in second gear and winced at the occasional ominous scraping of the Studebaker's muffler.

“Why did you want to come?” he asked.

“It's time I started developing a backbone.”

McIntire resisted mentioning that Mia was about the boniest person he'd ever met, an observation he would have made without a second thought prior to the episode of the skirt and the tears. “I hadn't noticed you lacked a spine.”

“What? I can't believe you say that! I've never done a thing in my whole life. Have never left the house I was born in. First my parents took care of me, then my husband. That's it, the story of my life—Ma, Pa, Nick, beginning, middle, end.”

“You could put it that way, or could say that first you took care of your mother, then your father for awhile, then your husband.”

“John,” she sighed, “everything I've ever needed has always been provided for me.”

That was definitely debatable, but not a subject McIntire wanted to get into. “I have a feeling this doesn't have much to do with chasing down murderers.”

“Nick is sick.”

“So you said.” Nick would likely perk up by the cocktail hour.

“I mean he's really sick. He's not going to get better.” She hunched down into her heavy jacket. “He's got Parkinson's.”

The car skidded and McIntire yanked the wheel. “Oh, Lord. Mia, are you sure?”

“He'll just go on getting worse until he's a complete invalid and….”

“I can't believe it.” He couldn't. Nick Thorsen incapacitated. Frail. It was beyond comprehension. “I'm so sorry, Mia. You know if there's anything I can do you only have to ask.”

“From Mama, to Nick, to the neighbors. Thanks, but I have to take care of myself now.”

“And Nick.” McIntire had to admit that, to him, that was where the real tragedy lay.

“Yes, Nick, too. For as long as necessary.”

“I'm so sorry, Mia.” There should be something more he could say.

“I thought it was just the drink,” she said. “I didn't even consider that it might be some disease. I was too selfish, too caught up in thinking about myself to see it, and all this time he's had to live with knowing he's going to die.”

“Nick was the selfish one not to tell you. He's got no one to blame but himself if you thought it was the effects of alcohol. He
is
a drinker.”

She looked at him with what might have been gratitude. “When he's gone there'll only be me, and when I'm dead that's it. Both our families will have died out.” She sat up straighter. “Well, there's always Annie Godwin. I have one last shirt-tail cousin left. I'm a step ahead of Nick there, anyway.”

Apparently she was still not aware that Annie Godwin had a big half brother or sister somewhere that was a whole lot more closely related to Nick than Annie was to Mia. McIntire wondered if Nick would ever tell her. Probably not. He wondered if he, himself, would ever tell her. Absolutely not.

The muddy road that dead-ended at the trail to Carlson's camp had become a parking lot. Three cars sat nose to tail: Carlson's truck, the Morgan, and Wendell Morlen's Cadillac. McIntire drew the Studebaker to the end of the parade. Mia stayed hunched in her seat.

“Looks like they all made it this far,” she said. “How do you suppose Bonnie knew how to find the place?”

“Greg told her I suppose. Maybe she's even been here before.”

“Oh. That's right.”

“Stay put. I'm going to look around the cars.” McIntire stepped out into the soggy snow and peered in and under each vehicle before returning to the passenger side of the Studebaker. He opened the door and motioned for Mia to get out. “Come on. Stay close to the trees.”

They crossed the creek, which now carried a narrow trickle of water. Two sets of footprints showed in the melting snow. One was large and lug-soled. The other smaller, the smooth imprint of a rubber overshoe.

The silence was suffocating. When Mia opened her mouth to speak, McIntire touched his forefinger to her lips. She grasped the hand in both hers and held it. “Why?” she asked. “If they're up there, and they're this quiet, they're dead.”

Mia's fingers were cold as death, and instantly the old protective instinct, the compassion that had eluded him when she told of her husband's illness, became overpowering. He opened his coat and pressed her hands against his chest.

The pale blue eyes locked on his. She bit her lower lip, but didn't pull away. McIntire bent, hesitating with his mouth almost touching hers.

When she spoke he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. “Are you waiting for me to stop you? Waiting for ‘Oh, John! No, we mustn't!'? Well, don't expect me to do it for you. I've got no reason. I'm cold, I'm scared, I've spent thirty years married to a man who chases after anything in a skirt and I've…I've ached for you every day of those thirty-two years. So you can just take care of your own conscience!”

“Mia, I—” A sudden shriek sent them scrambling apart. A bluejay swooped across the path.

She stared at him for a second, then shrugged, thrust her hands into her pockets and stalked up the trail.

The area in front of the cabin was deserted, but the smell of wood smoke hung in the air. McIntire left Mia concealed behind a fallen beech and skirted the clearing to approach the cabin from the rear. One look through the smudgy window told him that the cabin was without occupants, living or dead. He rejoined Mia, who had already left her hiding place and was staring down the trail that led deeper into the woods, the one that McIntire and Melvin Fratelli had first taken to Bambi's gold mine.

More tracks showed here in the soft snow. Three sets this time.

Mia frowned. “So they all trooped off together?”

McIntire studied the tracks. “I don't think so. It looks to me like Bonnie followed them. You can see her tracks over the larger sets. I hardly think that two gentlemen like Greg Carlson and Melvin Fratelli would leave a lady trailing along behind.”

“Well, aren't you the regular Tonto? I imagine you can put your ear to the ground and tell me where they're going, too?”

“Oh, no need to stick my head in the snow. I know exactly where they're headed,” he responded. “There is a quicker way to get there.”

“So should we take it? Head 'em off at the pass?”

“The other way goes precariously close to Esko Thomson. Maybe we better go this way, after all. We should be able to catch up with Bonnie. I can't imagine her making it through here on her own.”

“She's a woman on a mission.”

The route did not follow the way that McIntire had taken with Fratelli, but took almost a straight path to the mine. Carlson must know his way around better than Bambi and Ross had.

As they progressed to higher ground, the light snow cover shrank, and on the open hillsides disappeared, swept away by the wind or melted by the more direct rays of the sun. By the time the tracks they followed gave out completely, they were near enough to the mine that McIntire had no trouble finding his way. They had traveled the distance in a little more than an hour without encountering Bonnie Morlen.

Mia gave a tiny gasp when the black hole gaped before them. McIntire once again signaled to her to stay where she was and went forward. No sound issued from the cave. The grass and fern before the entrance was trampled into the wet earth, but it was impossible to tell how many, if any, people had gone inside, or if any of them remained there. If there was anyone inside, McIntire could come to no conclusion other than that they were dead. Mrs. Morlen and the two men would have no reason to be whiling away the afternoon in a damp hole in the ground.

A rustle of leaves and a snapping of twigs behind them brought McIntire to a halt and Mia to his side. They listened. McIntire could hear little but the blood pounding in his ears. Finally Mia put her hands, fingers extended, to the sides of her head—antlers. McIntire nodded, inhaled, and called out, “Carlson, you in there?”

His voice boomed in the stillness, making the silence that followed even more profound. “Is anybody in there?” He called again. No answer came.

He took Mia's arm and together they ducked through the narrow opening. Inside it was even blacker than he remembered. He hadn't thought to bring a flashlight, but even in the darkness, McIntire could feel that they weren't alone. He stepped to the side of the door to let in the meager light, pulling Mia with him. The stark white features of Bonnie Morlen materialized near the cave's left side. She was flanked by Greg Carlson and Melvin Fratelli, all with legs straight out in front of them, backs pressed into the earthen wall. They stared at the newcomers. Carlson and Fratelli showed a mixture of fear and embarrassment. Bonnie Morlen might have been comatose. None of the three spoke.

McIntire stepped forward. “What the hell is this? You look like a bunch of—”

“This here's a private shindig, Mr. McIntire, but you and your lady friend are welcome to horn in.” The raspy voice came from behind, and McIntire felt the familiar prod of Esko Thomson's trusty shotgun between his shoulder blades.

“Esko, you jackass. Put that thing down before you hurt somebody.” Mia spoke with the confidence of anger.

“Shut up, Missy! Both of you get over there and join the group.”

“It's Mia, you idiot, got that? Mia, not Missy.” Thomson swung the shotgun toward her. Mia moved to seat herself between Fratelli and McIntire.

“See if you ever get extra beans out of me again!” She dropped onto the earthen floor.

McIntire muttered, “Beans?”

“At the dance. The old fool,” she raised her voice, “sweet-talked me into more beans.”

“I said, shut yer trap!”

McIntire whispered, “Esko was at the dance?”

Mia's reply was taunting. “Oh, Esko always manages to hitch a ride to the dance. It's his big night out. He's a regular social butterfly, didn't you know?”

Thomson kept the gun trained on Mia's chest. Its barrel shook, as did the high-pitched voice. McIntire could see the glint in the black eyes, and clearly hear the rapid in and out of his breath. “Now, it ain't that I'm not just thrilled with the unaccustomed pleasure of your company, but why the hell are you all snooping around here? I want some answers and they'd better be good or—”

“Or what? You gonna shoot us, Esko?” Mia broke in. She gave a grunt at McIntire's jab to her ribs.

Bonnie Morlen jerked out of her stupor. Her voice, clear and strong, reverberated in the cavern. “Go ahead. Kill me. It'll save me the bother of doing it myself. But may I please request that you do me the favor of shooting this son of a bitch first so that I might have the extreme pleasure of watching him die.”

The son of a bitch her gesture indicated, Greg Carlson, sputtered, “Bonnie! What—”

“Save your breath, Greg. I know it was you. You who fed my son poison and stabbed him in the back. I wish you could die that way, too. Suffering and slowly bleeding to death.”

Carlson ignored the gun leveled at his head and swung around. “How could you ever get such an idea? Why would I want to hurt Bambi?”

“Hurt him?
Hurt?
You wanted to kill him, and that's what you did. To get to his money by getting to me. But why did you have to turn him against me first? Why did you tell him about Anatole?”

Carlson merely gaped.

“Oh you were so precious, pretending to be so in love, pretending to be so sorry. Well, I'll tell you something. You're not the only one that can put on an act. I've always known it was you. I've known since I saw my son's body that it was you who killed him.”

“Bonnie, what are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about his jacket, you moron! His high school letter jacket. He had it on when he died. It was there when I looked at his body…on that table…he was so cold. The doctor had taken his jacket then….” Her voice faded, then rang out again with the tones of a trained soprano, “But when I left you at midnight, it was in your car!”

The hands that gripped the shotgun stopped shaking.

“The law will take care of your son's murderer, Mrs. Morlen.” McIntire frantically searched for words. “We don't want to let his evil spread by making Mr. Thomson a killer, too.”

Carlson jaw dropped again. Thomson's breathing slowed.

“And,” McIntire continued, “if Mr. Thomson will lend me that shotgun, I'll take the killer in right now.”

It was going too far. He knew it the minute the words escaped his lips.

“Like shit!”

“Weiejingeshkid.”

A scrape sounded at the adit and it was filled with Adam Wall. He wore the brown uniform of the Flambeau County Sheriff's Department and carried a flashlight and a serious-looking handgun. He leveled both at Esko Thomson and spoke the word again.

“
Weiejingeshkid
. Have you heard that before, Esko? From my grandmother? Remember her? She cooked your meals, washed your clothes, emptied your piss-pot, back when you first came here…you know, way back in the old days when you were only a girl.”

The shotgun barrel shook, then dropped, and Esko turned to Adam Wall. The light from the torch showed a face small and pale under the thicket of hair. It was a face bereft of all hope. The glitter was gone, and the eyes were empty pools.

“Did Bambi find out?”

“I don't know his name.” Thomson's voice was a whisper.

“His name was Bambi Morlen. That woman over there is his mother.”

The shot, in the small space, was like an exploding bomb. Esko Thomson dropped to the earth. Bonnie Morlen swung the pistol toward her own chest.