“Frenchie, this is Joy Gunther.”
Frenchie sprang awkwardly from his chair, banging the table as he did so, eyes fixed on Joy. What she had thrown on wasn’t much.
“It’s great to finally meet you,” she said, taking his rough, outstretched hand in both of hers. “Hank doesn’t have many pictures, but you’re in all of them, and that makes me feel like I already know you. He talks about you all the time.” She excused herself and padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom. Frenchie watched her all the way. “Holy shit,” he said. Hank grinned and set about making coffee.
“Make detective yet?” Frenchie asked.
“Few months ago,” Hank said.
“That’s fast. Congratulations... This is quite a spread.”
“Yeah, it’s a handful, but it’s fun. Ten acres. Monster of an old barn. Joy’s making it all into something special. That’s a gift she has. Takes beat-up, discarded things and makes them special.” Hank was letting Frenchie move at his own pace. He owed Frenchie a lot. They say it takes a village to raise a child. When Hank was growing up in northeastern Michigan, there wasn’t a village to be found. What he had was Frenchie Skiba. Frenchie pushed aside the whiskey bottles Hank had for parents and gave him a hand to hold on to and a hand up.
Earl, Joy’s big orange tomcat, jumped up on the counter and sat down next to the coffeepot.
“You let the cat up on the counter?”
“His ass is cleaner than yours.”
“That’s not saying much. Besides, I’m wearing pants and I’m not the one sitting on the counter.”
Hank nudged Earl off the counter. “All excellent observations. They didn’t make you sheriff for nothing.”
“Speaking of asses, how’s the sand in yours?” It was a reference to Iraq.
“Less and less,” Hank said. “Less and less. You never wash it all out, do you?”
“Never met a combat vet who ever forgot he was in combat,” Frenchie said.
Hank sat down at the table, waiting for the coffee. They waited in silence, perfectly comfortable, like a pair of worn hunting boots in a corner. They waited for Joy, for the coffee, for Frenchie to get down to it.
“You serious about this girl?”
“Pretty serious. I like the hell out of her.”
“You love her?”
“Every chance I get.”
“You love her?”
“We get closer every day. Pooled our money to buy this place. We haven’t talked marriage but we’re already joined at the hip.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Joy returned as the coffee finished up. “I’ll get it,” she said. “What did I miss?”
“An analysis of Earl’s behavior,” Hank said.
“We spoil our animals,” Joy told Frenchie as she served the coffee. She sensed the natural silence and left it alone. Hank was waiting for Frenchie, so she did too. Frenchie sipped his coffee, set his cup down, and folded his hands on the table.
“Lee murdered a fifteen-year-old boy.”
Hank let the statement sink in, instantly wrestling with memories and emotions he hadn’t tasted for a long while and didn’t miss. They weren’t repressed exactly, but close to it.
“That’s a hell of a stretch. I don’t believe it.”
Frenchie sat in glum silence. He knew it would take Hank a while to get his arms around this.
“Killed or murdered?” Hank asked.
“You think I don’t know the difference?”
“When?”
“Yesterday around noon.”
Silence descended once more. This time it was anything but comfortable. Joy’s face was moving, full of questions. She looked at Hank. “Lee, Lee Weir, right, your Marine friend, the one in all the pictures? The one you never talk about?”
Hank didn’t say anything. His lips were moving slightly: a conversation with himself. Joy looked at Frenchie. “There’s always three guys in Hank’s pictures. You, Hank, and the one who looks like his brother.”
Frenchie nodded. “That would be Lee.”
“So what happened?” Hank asked.
“Some kid from Black River was rodding around on a four-wheeler. Lee jumped him. Slit his throat from behind. Left him dead at the wheel and took off.”
“Jesus. Was it a fight? I mean, did the kid provoke him somehow? Or did Lee just finally flip out?”
“Don’t know for sure. Lee’s not in custody, so all we’ve got is the crime scene and a dead kid.”
“Witnesses?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go. You don’t really know for sure, then, do you?”
“We’ve had some incidents with him at that location leading up to this. Fits a pattern. And I know in my gut. Think about it, Hank. Think about the Lee that came back from Iraq. Not so much of a stretch when you think about it that way.”
“PTSD is one thing. Murdering a kid is another. Vets mostly just murder themselves. And your gut won’t get you far in court. You think he’s headed here for some reason. That why you’re here?”
“No. We know where he is.” He paused. “He’s holed up in Negwegon. Killed the kid on the big beach there.”
“Negwegon, huh. That’s like saying he’s holed up in Pennsylvania.”
Frenchie nodded, looking intensely at Hank. Hank went cold. The purpose of Frenchie’s emergency visit was now perfectly clear. Hank could tell by the concerned look on Joy’s face that she understood as well. Hank was being recruited.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Negwegon is in Alcona and Alpena Counties in northeastern Michigan. I’m not an Alpena or Alcona County sheriff. I’m not a Michigan state cop. I’m an Indiana state cop. This has nothing to do with me.”
Frenchie scowled. “Come on, Hank. You know better than that.”
“Come on, Hank, my ass,” Hank said.
“He’s the nearest thing to a brother you’ll ever have.”
“We went our separate ways, Frenchie.”
“You had a political disagreement. Lee was never political. He was just a soldier.”
“Horseshit!” Hank barked, slamming the kitchen table with his fist. Fat Earl scrambled across the linoleum to get out of the room. Joy pushed her chair away from the table. “Soldiers don’t break into homes at night and muster families out on the street,” Hank hissed. “And they don’t carry drop weapons.”
“It’s a volunteer army,” Frenchie said.
Hank’s face sagged, as if someone had knocked the wind out of him. He knew it was as close as Frenchie would ever come to saying, “I told you so.” Frenchie had simply told them both, “I wouldn’t go to war for that crowd.”
Hank stood up, walked over to the window, and stared out into the warm darkness. Shame was the worst of it, shame for giving his life over to “that crowd.” Green as grass, galvanized by 9/11, and perfectly positioned between high school and college, Hank and Lee had joined up. In retrospect, Hank saw himself as good old reliable unquestioning rural cannon fodder: smart, tough, fierce, and stupid. The more the mission creeped, the more betrayed he felt.
“It’s a volunteer army before you join, not after,” Hank said. “Point is, I got the hell out when I got the chance. Lee saw the same things I saw, but stayed in. Shipped over, for Christ’s sake. In the end, it’s your trigger finger. Nobody else’s. And you don’t get kicked out with a general discharge because you’re a good Marine. Maybe he developed a taste for it.”
“Hank,” Frenchie said, drawing his name out, as if admonishing him for suggesting something ludicrous. “I saw him a couple times after he got out. He was screwed up, pounding down the beers, but I never sensed anything like that.”
“But he was violent, wasn’t he?”
“If you call garden-variety bar fights violent.”