Deer Season (4 page)

And then he looked back on his own teenage years. He remembered taking risks and doing things that from an adult perspective were foolish. But those were more innocent times, he said to himself.

Ray called to mind the time he fell through the ice on the lake near his home when he was fourteen or fifteen. His father had warned him to stay off the ice, but he was in a hurry to get to a friend’s house, and it was much faster to cross the lake than follow the country roads around the lake. Fortunately he was near the shore in waist deep water, and he was able to scramble back onto the ice. When he came back to the house fifteen minutes after he left, soaking wet and shivering, his father led him to the bathroom and started theshower. When he finally emerged from the steaming water, he found his bathrobe on a hook next to the shower and his wet clothes gone. The incident was never mentioned again.

He reflected on the other scrapes he got into as a teenager, like the time he skidded off a gravel road and smashed up the family car—an old, dented Ford. And then there was his first experience with too much beer and the effects of a hangover. Every time he got into a scrape, his parents helped him work through the experience without lectures or punishment. They seemed to accept the fact that he had to get into difficulty to learn about the world. And they were always ready to offer advice and counsel, but only if he asked for it. He wondered how they would have acted it he had ever gotten into real trouble.

Sometime during his musings on adolescent life, sleep had come, and he woke with a start, sunlight streaming into his bedroom. He looked over at the clock on his nightstand; it was past noon. He started to reach for the phone, to call in and say he was on his way, but he stopped and settled again. He looked at the designs made by the shadows of the half-open blinds on the wall near him. The midday sun was low on the horizon, the winter solstice being little more than a month away. Without raising his head he gazed around the room. He had spent so much time there in the past month while recovering from the serious physical and emotional wounds suffered earlier in the fall.

Somehow things seemed different this morning. He wondered if it was just the cheering effect of sunshine. He closed his eyes for a few moments and then looked around again. He was feeling different. The pain medications he had been taking after he was released from the hospital were now well washed from his system, and the almost overwhelming depression that had held him in its grip for weeks seemed to be lifting.

He climbed out of bed, hobbled off to the kitchen—the muscles of the injured leg still stiff, especially in the morning—to start the coffee. Then he headed for a shower.

Later, with a large travel mug of coffee carefully positioned on the seat next to him, Ray backed out of his garage. He locked the vehicle in four-wheel drive and descended his long, curved driveway. He stopped at the end and looked both ways; deep furrows had been cut in the still unplowed road by passing motorists.

Sudden movement in one of the snowy trenches caught his eye. He kept his foot on the brake, waiting for a cat or small dog to pass. And then the unexpected, a skunk waddling alone slid in front of him, stopped for a moment to look at him with ebony eyes, and then hurried on. A few yards beyond his drive, the animal climbed out of the track and started down a sharp ravine.

Ray watched as the skunk struggled in the deep snow, surfing down the incline in something akin to a breaststroke. He sat and observed until the Mustelidae finally disappeared in the thick underbrush.

“Omen?” he said out load. “What does it mean when a skunk crosses your path on a snowy morn?” He chuckled as he pulled onto the road and started the slow descent down the hill.

7
Gavin Mendicot III wakened cold and stiff, his head throbbing, his mouth dry and foul tasting, his bladder on the edge of bursting. The windows on his Bronco were covered with a translucent mist, the moisture from his respiration frozen to the glass.

Feet first, he clumsily slid into the driver’s seat from the back of the vehicle and started the engine. Gavin scraped at the windshield with his long fingernails, eventually switching to a battered credit card he dug out of the litter on the passenger’s seat. Once he had managed to clear a hole in the frost big enough so that he could navigate, he turned on the wipers and waited as a heavy layer of snow was pushed away. Then he pulled out of his parking place.

Less than a quarter of a mile down the road, he pulled into the Cottage Inn. In large letters the word EAT, highlighted by red fluorescent tubes, glowed brightly against the gray landscape. As soon as he got inside the restaurant, he headed for the men’s room. After taking care of his most immediate needs, he washed his hands and face in the basin and attempted to comb his long blond hair with his fingers. He rocked close to the mirror and looked at his blood-shot eyes and rubbed his three- or four-day beard with his right hand.

On his way to an empty booth at the rear corner of the restaurant, Gavin grabbed several sections of the
Free Press
from the counter. He was in the middle of an optimistic opinion piece on how the Lions might make the playoffs when a waitress placed a mug of coffee in front of him and asked for his order. A few minutes later a plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast was pushed in front of him, and Gavin momentarily gave up reading as he started to devour his breakfast. As he focused on the food, he tried to remember his last real meal.

Gavin peered across the restaurant. First he noticed the hair— in a military style, close-cut, salt and pepper; then the uniform, the brown of the sheriff’s department. He watched as the man pulled on his winter jacket, a heavy nylon affair, in a slightly lighter shade of brown than his shirt. Gavin could see the deputy’s head in profile as he chatted with the woman at the cash register. Then, as the man turned toward the door, Gavin could see him clearly. It was a face that had been burned into his memory years before.

The waitress, a large, taciturn woman, laid his check on the table after filling his coffee cup a third time. He tossed a ten on the table when he left, not bothering to take his bill to the register.

Gavin had anticipated some kind of confrontation on his return from his hunting trip. His departure from the home of his girlfriend, Donna Bateman, had not been a peaceful one. The tensions had been building, most of them caused by her son, Clay. Gavin knew the kid resented his mother sharing her bedroom, but he rationalized that the kid might as well get used to the ways of the world.

Gavin thought about buying a bottle before he confronted Donna, but decided against it. He would need his wits about him in this face-off. Donna was smart and always seemed to argue better than he did.

He could feel his anxiety rising when he turned onto White Oak Trail. He pulled into Donna’s drive, parking behind her truck. And as he walked toward the door, he considered what he was going to say, how he was going to handle the situation. He knew what he had seen at the Last Chance. Now he had to figure out what to do about it.

Gavin stopped at the front door. This was the place he had been living on and off for the last eight months, but for some reason he felt compelled to knock. When Donna opened the door, she seemed stunned to see him.

“You,” she said in an accusatorial tone.

“Who were you expecting?” Gavin responded, thinking he should go on the offensive. “Maybe a visit from the sheriff. Pick up where you left off?”

“It’s because of you the sheriffs were here,” she responded angrily. “You and that old shotgun….”

“I stopped in to see you last night and….”

“What are you talking about?” Donna demanded.

“Last night. I was going to surprise you. Pulled in after closing, but it looked like you were taking care of some business,” Gavin said, thinking that he had her trapped.

“Yeah,” she said, her anger palpable. “They came to tell me that my son was involved in a shooting. That he was going to jail.” After a pause, she said, “What did you think was going on?” Donna followed quickly with, “You dumb shit. I know what you were thinking. Look, Clay was playing with one of your guns. He shot at a car with some other teenagers in it. He’s in jail. And I think the police are looking to have a little chat with you too, asshole.”

“What are you talking about?” Gavin demanded.

“The guns, your guns. The ones in the pole barn.”

“I had them locked in a steel box,” he countered defensively.

“Well genius, you didn’t have it locked up very securely.”

“So what happened?”

“Some kids from Sand River blew up our mailbox. Clay was going to scare them with a gun of yours. He didn’t know it was loaded. It was an accident. Some damn kid got hit.”

“Loaded,” protested Gavin. “It wasn’t loaded.”

“Yes, it was, and it’s all your fault, asshole,” Donna yelled at him. “And now I want you out of here. Just take your things and go. I don’t want you here any more. And take all the fucking guns you got locked up in the safe in the pole barn with you.”

“You want me to take that deer rifle, the one I bought you last year, too?” Gavin asked, thinking that he’d like to have the gun back.

“No, leave it. It was a gift. It’s mine. I can hock it or use it on your sorry ass if you come sniffing around.” She paused briefly, “And before you go, I want some money.”

“I don’t have any money,” he said.

“You lying sack of shit. If you don’t have any, ask your keepers. I’m sure you can get some.”

“How much you need?”

“Two grand for openers. That’s what the lawyer wants as a retainer. I’ll need more later.”

“The kid that was shot…?”

“He was just nicked. The little bastard probably deserved it. Now I want you gone. Get your stuff, anything I find is going out in the trash.” She directed him toward the bedroom they had been sharing.

Gavin tossed the few clothes and other possessions that he had been keeping at Donna’s in a couple of garbage bags. As he was leaving, she stopped him at the door, moving into his space, her body almost touching his. “Bring me a check. At the Last Chance. I don’t want you here again. Ever. Understand?”

Gavin pushed past her without answering. He tossed the bags in the back of the Bronco and climbed behind the wheel. He looked back toward the house; Donna was standing outside, holding a cigarette and glaring at him.

“I’ll get even with you, bitch,” he mouthed in her direction before backing out of the drive.

8
Ray was not surprised to find Maggie Engle, the superintendent of the Cedar Bay Schools, waiting for him at his office when he finally arrived a few minutes after 1:00 p.m. Over the last few years, since he had moved back to the area and been elected sheriff, he and Maggie had been in constant contact. She initiated most of their meetings. Not that Maggie ever wasted his time, but she was on the phone or making a personal visit to his office any occasion when the safety or welfare of one of the district’s students was in question.

Maggie had arrived in Cedar Bay twenty years earlier, coming to the area with her husband, many years her senior, who had just retired from Columbia University. His roots were in the region, and he was delighted to be returning to the family farm to tinker with raising grapes and apples. Maggie, however, while not completely immune to the bucolic pleasures of rural life, was bored and restless. She was a fish out of water: Jewish, a devoted city dweller, a regular at the opera, symphony, and museums. She liked strong black coffee; short, thin cigars; and reading the
New York Times
the morning it was published, something that was not possible in Northern Michigan in the mid 1980s.

So when the chemistry teacher at Cedar Bay High fell ill and retired unexpectedly, Maggie was delighted to be back in the classroom, even if students weren’t as intellectually aggressive, urbane, and diverse as the kids she had taught during her tenure at Horace Mann.

That first semester she thought she’d only teach until the district found a replacement. They didn’t. In fact, the board and subsequent boards—farmers, owners of small businesses, housewives, and an occasional professional—quickly understood what a treasure Maggie was. Not that she didn’t ruffle feathers and challenge local values, which was something she did almost daily. But her skill as a teacher, and then a principal, and then the superintendent—the administrative positions thrust upon her by the board and community—reflected their appreciation for the transformation she brought to the schools.

Maggie believed with few exceptions every kid could go to college and that opportunity and mobility came through education. And as principal of the high school, and later as the superintendent, she recruited the best teachers she could find to replace an aging faculty.

She all but eliminated the district’s dropout problem; more than a few parents were surprised to find her at their door demanding to know why their sons and daughters were not at school. She was brave, direct, and unflappable. And she didn’t hesitate to use law enforcement if she thought any of “her kids” needed protection or, her phrase, “enforced enlightenment.”

Under her guidance most kids who graduated from Cedar Bay went to college. If they needed financial support, she and her staff would help them find scholarships and grants. And Maggie would follow up on the grads, providing additional assistance and encouragement when it was required. The college matriculation rate of the district’s graduates looked more like that of a fairly tony suburban school than that of a small, class “D” rural school.

“Hey,” Maggie said, her voice gravelly from years of heavy smoking, “Late start today. I thought crime never sleeps.”

“Up here in the woods it occasionally naps. What can I do for you?”

“What’s happening with Clay? What’s he been charged with?”

“Initially he will probably be overcharged—assault with intent to commit murder. Who knows what he’ll end up with— possession of a firearm while intoxicated, reckless use of a firearm, minor in….”

“Then what?” Maggie asked.