“It doesn’t have to be hell. You sounded like you weren’t going to do it, then all of a sudden you said you would. Why? Frenchie said he wouldn’t go over your head. And whatever Lee Weir was to you before, he’s not that anymore. You said so yourself.”
Hank took her hand, kneading it thoughtfully. “At first I figured, easy call... no way. But as he talked I saw something in his face I’ve never seen before — dread. Pure dread. Everybody has a breaking point. I got a bad feeling that Lee’s blood on Frenchie’s hands might be more than he could handle. I mean, the guy practically raised us. And Lee... hell, we both did things... things that couldn’t be helped, things beyond our control. But kill a kid on a beach at Negwegon? Can’t see it.”
“Frenchie sees it.”
“Yes. Frenchie sees it. And everything he says points to it. But I can’t see it. And if I don’t go, the pack will gun him for sure. He’s gonna run. He’ll run at ’em or he’ll run away from them. They’ll kill him either way. Frenchie and Lee... I can’t leave it hangin’ like this.”
“What if you have to... do something to Lee? How’s that different from anything else that might happen?”
“It’s different because Frenchie trusts me completely. He’ll know he did everything he could to save Lee. He thinks I’ll bend over backward to bring Lee in alive. He’s wrong, but that’s what he thinks. Anybody else drags Lee out in a body bag and it could send Frenchie into a guilt trip he’ll never get over. That pack he was talking about, that’s no joke. He won’t have any real control over those guys. He’ll feel responsible for anything they do.”
Joy nodded. She understood. Hank believed this was the most important thing he could ever do for Frenchie and he had to do it. She squeezed his hand and put her arm around him. “Maybe you won’t find him and you’ll just be back in five days like nothing happened. Just a longer intermission than we thought.”
Hank smiled. “Maybe,” he said.
Resigned, Joy returned to the kitchen, where Frenchie was nursing his coffee.
“Sorry to meet you with a mess like this,” he said.
“You ought to be,” Joy snapped.
“You’re a hard woman.”
“You could get him killed.”
“Hank can handle himself... Mind if I borrow your couch while he gets ready?”
“Go ahead. Take your shoes off, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“That kind of trouble I can handle,” Frenchie said. He rose slowly from the table, stiff from hours of driving. Joy watched him move creakily over to the couch, take off his sneaks, and sink into it. He didn’t look at her. He wasn’t eager to talk.
Joy followed him over. “I’m being a bitch,” she said.
“That’s okay,” Frenchie said. “You’ve got cause. And anyway, you’re a saint compared to the mother of my second baseman.”
“Frenchie, how dangerous is this?”
“Not dangerous at all,” Frenchie said, turning to face the back of the couch. “Unless he finds Lee.”
Joy managed a small good-luck smile as Hank pulled out in his dark green Jeep Cherokee, his battered sea kayak strapped on the roof like a turquoise torpedo. He was geared up, already thinking strategy for the hunt. He was nervous. Lee was trouble. They had always competed in a friendly way, all kinds of contests, from bench presses to swimming to running. Truth was, on his best day, Lee was damn near unbeatable.
With Hank trailing Frenchie’s prowler they crossed the northern Indiana border into southern Michigan and tacked steadily northeast across the state. Then they veered as far east as they could go onto U.S. 23 North, the traffic immediately dwindling to almost nothing. The two-lane highway hugged Lake Huron so closely that the big lake was now visible through the trees and the yards. The lake bathed the early afternoon in coolness.
Hank slipped the Jeep into four-wheel drive as he turned from Black River Road onto Sand Hill Trail, the entrance to Negwegon. It was Sand Hill Trail that practically eliminated tourism at the big wilderness park. The poorly marked, narrow, twisting dirt road discouraged most vehicles. If people can’t drive to it, most won’t go. Negwegon was a huge park that was hugely unknown. Locals called it “the hidden beach.”
Frenchie spoke briefly to a deputy stationed near the turnoff and they continued some three miles through a mature mixed conifer and hardwood forest until they reached the main gravel parking lot at the heart of the park. They pulled up next to the lone prowler parked by the band of forest that lay between the lot and the lake.
Hank stepped out into a familiar deep-woods quiet and the soft, soothing murmur of water rushing to shore. It was his old haunt, his escape, his and Lee’s. Lee didn’t have a poisonous home life to escape. It was his love of the natural world and all things physical that made him a perfect match for the big park and Hank. Frenchie forged them together. The two had camped, hunted, swum, fished, worked out, partied, kayaked, grown tall and strong here, and loved every minute of it.
Frenchie and Hank took the short trail to the beach. The shiny blue Yamaha was perched on a small dune like a prehistoric bird of prey. Standing next to it in a uniform of dark brown pants, khaki shirt with brown epaulettes, and black belt and holster — tall and Norselike — was Red. Hank stopped.
He frowned. “Do you think it’s a good idea to have Red involved with this? I got enough on my mind without worrying about Red.” Hank’s eyes had been hungry for Red for as far back as he could remember.
“She’s here because she’s a cop with a special relationship with Lee, just like you. She could come in handy, help talk him out maybe. She’s steady. You know that.” He eyed Hank. “Make sense?” Hank nodded grudgingly.
The puddles of blood on the Yamaha were baked black like tar. Frenchie laid a big hand on a Mud Wolf tire. “How’s it work that the mess in Iraq kills the Zuckerman kid here on the beach? Man, that’s the long way around.” But they all knew how it worked. You trip and fall in Iraq and hit the ground in Michigan. Or anywhere.
“Thanks for coming, Hank,” Red said.
“Hey, Red,” Hank said. He grinned and in a herky-jerky dance shed his cargo shorts. “Damned if I won’t get something good out of this trip. Be right back.”
In his navy boxers he charged into the gently rolling surf. Home was not people to Hank. Home was a place. This place. Woven into the fabric of his childhood. He was home.
He high-stepped a few yards, then dived into the shockingly cold water. Breaking the surface with a gasp and a whoop, he lay still, floating like mercury in space with his face toward the icy bottom, his back absorbing the friendly warmth of the sun.
Hank was a superb athlete. He had reached his height of six foot three while still in high school. At 190 pounds he was fast, rangy, and strong. He and Lee, under Frenchie’s tutelage, had honed their considerable genetic gifts to become small-town sports phenoms, as close as you can get to canonization. Everybody knew the guy who caught forty-yard passes that beat the bigger schools from down south. Passes that came from Lee Weir.
The athletic prowess of the two boys brought them to the attention of Frenchie Skiba. He brought them stability, affection, and discipline. They brought him championships.
Hank kept swimming straight out until his veins opened up. On the job, over time, his veins collapsed. Oh, he stayed gym-rat fit. But his standards were higher: boot-camp hard, survival-training hard. What the world throws at you doesn’t get thrown at you in a gym.
Chest heaving, tiring a little, he stopped his machinelike strokes about a quarter mile out. He was completely relaxed, a natural part of the spectacular panorama around him. Returning to shore was a frolic. Diving here and there, holding his breath as long as he could. Close to shore, where the water was shallow and warm, he flopped on his belly, crawling with his fingertips and letting the little waves nudge him along.