The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

Jim Allyn The Master of Negwegon

From Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

On this warm August morning Josh Zuckerman thought he was alone on the beach. He didn’t know he was being watched. He didn’t know he was being regarded by a set of eyes that considered him just another enemy in a country that contained nothing but, a country that Josh had never seen and never would see because he had less than ten minutes to live. He was going to live that last ten minutes on a pristine stretch of Lake Huron shoreline named after a long-dead Chippewa chief: Negwegon.

Josh was thrilled to be away from his invalid mother. During the school year, a home-care nurse helped her in and out of her wheelchair, helped her with personal things, and did routine chores. In the summer, though, to save money, they dispensed with the nurse and Josh did the work. None of the summer jobs he could get would earn as much as the nurse cost. So Josh didn’t get the summer break most kids got. But right now he had a break and was scary happy. Scary because he knew the huge, lightly used wilderness park and its seven miles of undeveloped beach was protected, off-limits to four-wheelers. He’d snuck his Yamaha Raptor into the forests and fields of the park before and there he stayed well concealed, never daring the beach. That much was easy, because the park boundary was long and roadless and only two miles from the family farm on Black River Road. But tearing around on the open beach — that was risky: just what he needed to shake the boredom of weeks of caring for a beloved cripple. He had successfully negotiated the broken trails without being spotted. Now the broad empty beach was all his, a perfect place to release the muscle of his Raptor, a gift on his fourteenth birthday.

If he had been standing, he would have been taller than the cluster of young six-foot Scots pines in front of him. But he was crouching, peering through the green needles at the roaring four-wheeler doing figure eights in the desert sand. He wasn’t sure where he was. His best guess was about two miles from where the Euphrates emptied into Lake Huron. He watched as the giant beetle straightened, accelerated and soared over the top of a small dune, and splashed into the shallow waves. He couldn’t understand why nobody was shooting. The son of a bitch was running wild inside the perimeter. Frigging thing might be loaded with explosives. Why wasn’t anyone shooting? Skidding, spraying sand into the water, the fat treads of the Mud Wolf tires were ripping up a beach that had been unmolested for centuries.

He couldn’t see who was driving. It didn’t matter. He was going to kill him. Carve a deep red smile into his throat and let the blood spray out over the hot sand. The desert sand of the Holy Land has an unquenchable thirst for human blood. Yes, he would kill him and throw his body in the alley with the rest of the corpses that had welcomed his unit this morning in Fallujah. The religious and ethnic factions were engaged in fratricidal butchering of biblical proportions. Bombings. Kidnappings. Murder, because it’s the only thing you know and the only job you can find. Home invasions. Drive-bys. Sunni against Shiite against Kurd against Christian, tribe against tribe, clan against clan, family against family. The only good thing about that was that when they were busy killing each other they weren’t busy trying to kill the infidel invaders. And now come the Internet-savvy, joyfully murderous thugs of the self-proclaimed Islamic state — ISIS. He’d seen their black uniforms and black flags in the Alpena News and on the tube. It was only a matter of time until the butchers showed up here.

Josh Zuckerman didn’t see the lean, bearded, half-naked figure break from the pines like a jungle cat and sprint across the sand. He didn’t realize someone had jumped on his back until a strong hand grabbed his chin from behind and jerked his head back. The searing pain, the profound and final gagging, lasted ninety seconds. Like vanishing music, his strength and vision faded, his last image a lone magnificent cloud moving unhurriedly across an open blue sky.

He shut off the engine. Now the sounds were as they should be. The gentle lapping of the waves, the screech of a gull, the wind trailing through the towering white pines. He dropped from the Raptor and jogged back into the forest. The beach was quiet again... and all his.

A warm, breezy August night in northern Indiana. Joy Gunther and Hank Sawyer had opened all the bedroom windows of the old farmhouse that sat isolated about twenty miles south of South Bend. Hank was wrapped in Joy’s arms and legs with the wind dancing across his back. He had reached that wonderful state when the mind finally shuts down and all that’s left is warm, damp, exciting rhythm. That’s why Joy had to make a fist and pound him on the temple to get his attention, not exactly one of her usual playful moves. It hurt.

“Hey, take it easy.”

“I heard something. I think there’s someone at the door.”

“If you knock me out I won’t be able to check on it.”

She giggled. Together they became still, like someone had pulled the plug on a washing machine. Quiet, just the curtains rustling. Then Hank heard it too. A gentle rapping at the front door. He grabbed his snub-nosed Colt off the nightstand. Trouble usually doesn’t knock, but it was one a.m. and he was definitely a little dazed and confused, not to mention naked and aroused. With domestic violence a routine part of his work, he had noted the menacing glances the husband Joy was dumping had sent his way. Without turning on a light he tied Joy’s blouse around his waist and went out into the living room. He looked sideways out the bay window at the front door and saw a stocky white shape. He let his head clear for a moment. His heart was still beating fast. He called out through the screen.

“Who is it?”

“Hank, it’s Frenchie. Open up.”

It’s funny how people you were close to in your youth remain familiar always. You bump into them after years have gone by and start talking to them like you’d seen them only yesterday. Hank hadn’t seen Frenchie Skiba in five years, but somehow it seemed perfectly natural that he was at his door in the middle of the night. He flicked on the porch light and opened the door. Frenchie Skiba stood there in a rumpled white baseball uniform with navy pinstripes. ALCONA WILDCATS was emblazoned on a patch on his left shoulder. A black Alcona County Sheriff ‘s Department prowler sat in the driveway. Hank smiled. Even with all the windows open wide, they hadn’t heard the prowler pull up. They wouldn’t have heard the space shuttle land either.

“You here for the tryouts?”

“You gonna shoot me or invite me in?”

Hank glanced down at the Colt. “I’m on the fence.”

Frenchie pushed by Hank. “You never could hit shit anyway.” From behind Hank got the smaller man in a friendly horse collar and gave him a big hug.

“Jesus, if you’re gonna do that put some pants on.”

Hank laughed and led him to the kitchen that Joy was restoring and sat him down in the breakfast nook. He put the gun on the counter. “My girl is separated, getting a divorce,” he said. “Thought you might be her husband dropping by to cast his vote.”

“Husbands that knock you don’t have to worry about.”

Hank went back into the bedroom. “It’s Frenchie Skiba,” he said as he put on baggy khaki cargo shorts and a white T-shirt. Joy had never met Frenchie but she knew him as the stocky, somber, heavy-bearded black man omnipresent in photos from Hank’s youth. In the pictures he looked short, but most people looked short standing next to Hank.

“Why is he here at this ungodly hour?” she asked, rummaging around for something to throw on. “Some kind of emergency?”

“Don’t know, but I expect so. He’s driving a prowler and wearing a Little League uniform. I’d say he hit the road in a hurry.”

“He didn’t tell you anything?”

“Not yet. Frenchie tells you things when he’s ready. Come out to the kitchen and we’ll talk.”

She leaned into him. “This is just halftime, you know.”

“Not a good analogy,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no sport where both sides win. How about ‘intermission’?”

“Mmmmm... I like your logic.” Together they went out to the kitchen. Like the rest of the sprawling old farmhouse, the kitchen was in the middle of a transformation. About half the cabinetry was still covered by original blistering and peeling white paint. The other half was lovingly if sloppily painted light yellow with light green trim right over the old paint, no sanding or scraping done at all. Joy’s choice of colors was odd, but like everything else she did it exuded casual charm. It was that touch that made her the youngest vice president in South Bend’s biggest marketing firm. Clients loved her, were wowed by the pretty blonde with the purring engine and creative mind.

“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.”

“I call them precursors,” Hank said. “He never did that kind of shit before. And you don’t know why he got a general discharge, do you?”

“No.”

“No. They keep that stuff confidential for a reason. That kind of discharge is usually for guys too shaky to keep around. I’ll lay odds it involved a bad kill. And a bad kill by military standards would get you the chair stateside.”

“Gets kind of tricky when you start talking about good kills and bad kills in a wrong war,” Frenchie said. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Okay. Fair enough. You’re probably right and I should have seen it coming. But I mean, we’re talking about Lee, Hank. Lee. I took him in one night after a bar fight and he gave me the creeps. Wasn’t the kid I remembered, but I never figured him for a walking time bomb. He was jabbering. Said the world was coming for him.”

Hank snorted. “Well, if it wasn’t before, it sure as hell is now. You look ridiculous in that uniform, by the way.”

“I was holding a practice at Harrisville when I got the call. Went to the scene and then drove straight here.”

“You still haven’t told us why you’re here.”

“You haven’t figured that out yet? I thought you made detective.”

“I want to hear it.”

Frenchie was irritated that he had to ask. He was hoping for a volunteer. “Okay. You’re the only one who’s got a chance to bring Lee in solo with no more violence. No one knows the man like you. No one knows Negwegon like you.”

“Lee knows Negwegon better than anyone.”

“Maybe, but you’re a close second and no one else is even in the same ballpark. Plus you’ve got a shared past you can use to talk him out. Hell, you’ve even got experience counseling vets through your Wounded Warrior work.”

“It should be called ‘Wounded Warrior for What?’ ” Joy interjected heatedly, “and he doesn’t do that anymore. It was making him sick.” She went over and stood by Hank. “He’s done enough. And let me ask you something, Frenchie. Would Lee Weir have killed this boy before he went to Iraq?”

“No way.”

“Then what makes you think he won’t kill Hank?”

Frenchie hesitated. “I didn’t say it wasn’t dangerous.”

Drawing herself up in her best boardroom persona, Joy stepped toward Frenchie and said sharply, “I think you should get out of our house.” Standing there barefoot, all of five foot two and wearing a pink robe with a white fluffy shawl collar, her order did not have the desired effect: Frenchie grinned broadly and Hank laughed.

“Whoa, tiger,” Hank said, putting his arms around her. “Frenchie’s talking business. He’s just talking business. We should hear him out.”

“We’ll hear him out and then you can say no,” she said. Hank could feel the tension in her body.

Frenchie rubbed his tired face with both hands. “Look, I’ve only got two options. You’re one. The other is to let loose the pack, and that scares the hell out of me.”

“The pack?” Joy asked.

“The northern Lower Peninsula is nothing but state parks, national forests, state forests, big private hunting clubs... it’s really a single forest about a hundred miles wide and two hundred miles long, with Lake Michigan on the west and Lake Huron on the east.

“Lee grew up in Negwegon, in the north woods. Guy with his skills, if he decides to hide or fight, hell, it’ll take a ton of manpower to flush him out. I’ll have to round up city cops, state cops, sheriff’s deputies, National Guard to comb the woods section by section. Plus everybody up there owns a gun and knows how to use it. Lee will be just another blood sport to a lot of them, and they’ll be out in force trying to get their picture in the paper. If I go with that pack, we might be seeing body bags until there’s enough snow to track ’im. And today is August thirteenth.”

Joy leaned her head back to look at Hank. He nodded in agreement.

“Hank,” Frenchie said, a look of defeat clouding his face, “I could go to your boss, but you know I won’t do that. But if you do this, whatever decisions you have to make, it’ll be okay with me. I’ll back you, no questions asked. No one expects you to subdue him. Just get him.” That meant no rules — Frenchie was giving Hank an open license to kill.

“You know, Frenchie, for the first time in a long time I feel pretty good about life. Stopped the tailspin.” He squeezed Joy tight. “Why should I take a chance on starting that whole thing again?”

“Because Lee hasn’t been so lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s about choices. I’m living with mine. He can live with his.”

“You guys walked into a shit storm. What happens in a shit storm is all about luck. You tellin’ me you don’t think it’s possible Lee could be sittin’ here with this pretty lady while you’re half nuts and hidin’ out in Negwegon? Why, because you’re so pure of heart?”

Hank said nothing, smiling slightly. That’s why Frenchie was a damn good coach. He knew the buttons to push.

“Nobody knows his favorite spots like you. He won’t be expecting anybody to know that.”

Hank gazed at Frenchie. His de facto father was older now; his black wiry hair had gone salt-and-pepper and his face had earned more wrinkles, particularly around his eyes. So many wonderful days Hank had spent with Frenchie and Lee on the sunrise side of the Big Lake.

“I’ll do it,” Hank said abruptly. “Take me about an hour to gear up.”

Frenchie nodded his head once, emphatically, acknowledging and thanking Hank in that one motion.

“Got the park locked down?” Hank asked.

“Best we can with the manpower. Blocked off both ends of Sand Hill Trail and put a car at the dead end on Lake Shore Road. Got a prowler driving back and forth on Twenty-three between the mountain and Nicholson Hill Road so no one parks and hikes in. Got two deputies at the crime scene. Yamaha is still there. Didn’t want to stir things up, do any searching, until I heard from you. So it’s been quiet at the park.”

“Good. That’s good,” Hank said.

Stunned by the suddenness of Hank’s decision, Joy said nothing and simply followed Hank as he moved toward the bedroom. He stopped halfway down the hall and turned back to Frenchie. “Why didn’t you just call me? Could have saved you a trip.”

“Red said a call wouldn’t be enough,” Frenchie responded. “Said I’d have to talk to you face-to-face. I figured she ought to know.”

Hank winced but said nothing. Red was a struggle he kept to himself.

“Is Red that big girl that’s in some of the pictures?”

“Probably,” Frenchie said. “Coached her just like I coached Hank and Lee. She was the Queen of Title Nine in our area. Real jock.”

“Her hair doesn’t look red.”

“It’s dark red, almost black.”

“Dark auburn,” Joy said.

“She’s one of my deputies now,” Frenchie said. “She was always Lee’s girl, since about the seventh grade.”

Joy sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. She was angry that Hank had reached a decision without involving her. She knew Hank’s relationships with Frenchie, Lee, and probably Red were at the core of the boy he used to be and the man he had become. What did she matter compared to them? She wasn’t sure. She now knew Frenchie for all of twenty minutes and Lee and Red not at all. She had tried to get Hank to open up about them, even tried to get him to take her camping at Negwegon. “Maybe someday,” was all he said.

She sat quietly, clearly at a loss. This was the first time she knew ahead of time that Hank was headed for certain danger. Not an abstract understanding of his job or a talk with him after the fact, but going one-on-one after a crazy ex-Marine who had killed a kid.

Hank stopped stuffing a duffel bag and sat down next to her. “Talk about going from heaven to hell in a matter of minutes.”

“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.

He staggered up the beach, fatigue from the long drive and hard swim coursing through him. He dropped on his back, making an angel in the hot sugar sand.

Red and Frenchie were smiling. It was quintessentially the Hank they used to know.

“Feel better?” Frenchie asked.

“Much.”

“Your secret playground is now a crime scene.”

Hank sighed and rose to his elbows, surveying the quiet blue bay. “Yeah. Can’t believe it. So what are you thinking, Coach? What’s the plan?”

“That you search alone, but keep Red close. Whether you use her or not is your call, but communicate through her. She’ll communicate with the rest of us. She knows all the contacts we might need. We’ll try to keep the place locked down for however long you say.”

Hank recognized that it was a good approach, using Red to handle the problem of his being an outsider. “If I don’t catch him or cut a hot trail in three days then I don’t have an edge and I’m gone,” Hank said. “I won’t hang around for the tally-ho enterprise, thank you very much.”

“Can’t keep the lid on this much longer than three days anyway,” Frenchie said.

“I thought I’d take Potawatomi Trail and camp tonight at South Point. Start out first light. Red can drop off at Pewabic on the way there.” Negwegon had four pocket parks along its shoreline, all consisting of a small open beach, picnic table, privy, and firepit: Pewabic, Blue Bell, Twin Pines, and South Point.

“I got a two-seventy with a big Zeiss in the prowler if you want it.”

Hank considered. The moment was like so many that had occurred in the last decade. Utterly incredible. Four-ton Humvees tossed in the air like toys. Half-conscious terrified souls getting their heads sawed off in front of cameras. Endless streams of impoverished refugees. Now, here, take this rifle son and go shoot the guy who used to be your best friend and by the way since you’ve been gone your house is only worth half of what it used to be.

“I’m not here to be a sniper. I’m here to try up close and personal. Putting one into him at three hundred yards is a job for someone else.”

“Lee is not a job,” Red said.

Frenchie looked hard at her. “Take a knee,” he said. Without hesitation Red dropped to a knee. Hank pulled himself up from the sand and took a knee beside her. It was a familiar position for them and they couldn’t help exchanging a smothered smile at Frenchie’s unique mixture of coaching style and law-enforcement leadership. He didn’t look particularly impressive standing there in his Little League outfit.

“Feel kind of awkward,” Hank said. “I’m the only one not in uniform.”

Frenchie ignored him. “You said Lee’s not a job. You’re wrong. That’s exactly what he is. You’re not here because you’re friends of his. You’re here because you’re cops, cops who have an advantage that just happens to be friendship.

“A good argument could be made that you’re exactly the wrong people to do this job — too close to the perp. Judgment will be for shit. But I figure my job is to minimize bloodshed and you two have the best chance of doing that. I won’t have this command for long. Crime’s too big. If I have to bring in the pack, my jurisdiction will be the smallest and they’ll take command away from me in a heartbeat. This is my only chance to do the job my way... and you’re the best tools I’ve got. The goal here is to avoid a manhunt that could become a shootout. The goal here is to protect yourselves. The goal here is not, I repeat, not, to protect Lee. The goal is to get Lee.

“Time to imagine,” he said. “Time to imagine.” He let the words hang in the air.

Red and Hank recognized the introduction. It was the visualization exercise. See yourself launch the three-pointer from the cheap seats and hear the swish as the buzzer sounds. See the pigskin drop from the sky into your hands as you outjump the defensive back and cross the goal line as time expires. See success in your mind and then go make it happen. It won’t be a surprise. It will be an expectation.

“See yourself killing Lee,” Frenchie said softly. He waited a moment. “See yourself killing Lee. If you can’t, go home, because for all we know he’ll kill us all if he gets the chance.” Hank and Red remained where they were. Frenchie left in his prowler.

They unloaded Hank’s Jeep, lashing the kayak, a few supplies, and Red’s backpack to a two-wheel cart. They didn’t talk. They were thinking about what Frenchie had said. They headed out on the northern branch of Potawatomi Trail, which started at the end of the parking lot. There could be no awkwardness between them. They had grown up together, been through too much, most of it filled with extraordinarily fine moments.

“Life used to be simple,” Red finally said. “Used to be Lee’s biggest concern was whether he’d work in the lab or in the field and my biggest concern was how many kids we’d have.”

“Life was never simple,” Hank said. “We were. Young, simple, and having a hell of a good time.”

“We’re not young anymore?”

Hank patted her shoulder. “Haven’t been young for a while now.” Hank had never touched Red, never made a move. Would have blown their wonderful triangular friendship sky-high. Fortunately, he’d always had girlfriends around to take the edge off.

They continued walking down the sun-splashed trail, the cart an easy pull. It dawned on Hank that Lee could be around anywhere. Maybe even near this trail. He began looking around more warily, watching for signs of movement in the woods or unusual shapes. He did that for a while and stopped in his tracks.

“There’s something screwy about the woods,” he said. “Looks different somehow. What am I missing?”

“Look at the ash,” Red said.

Hank picked out a tall ash among the oak and maple and birch and pine and spruce. Its normally dark bark was mottled with tan streaks and large tan areas that looked like rub marks. He looked at other ash. Their dark bark was also mottled in various degrees, and he noticed that some branches were entirely without leaves.

“What is that?”

“Emerald ash borer. Invasive species from Asia. It’s killing all the ash in the park. If we were in one of the ash swamps, you’d have noticed right away. All those trees are dead already.”

“Jesus, if Lee’s been wandering around through all these dying trees, maybe we can lure him out with Prozac. Red, did Frenchie give you any tips about how to handle this thing?”

“Yes. He said not to take any chances with Lee and not to take any chances with you.” She cast him a sideways smile.

Hank laughed. Shit, he’d probably always been an open book to Frenchie and Red. “So what’s your take on this? Frenchie’s sure Lee did it. Are you?”

They walked a bit. Red said, “I would have killed that kid myself if I saw him tearing up our beach with that rig.”

“Amen,” Hank said, glancing at her. The black-red hair against her fair skin always got to him, as did the memory of watching those smooth slabs of muscle at work in basketball and volleyball games. What a specimen she was. Some women are the flame and you rail against being the moth but you never quite make it.

“I made a big mistake,” Red said. “You know how pissed I was at you guys for enlisting. Both of you. You acted like it was a lark, just another sport to go be heroes at. But I had watched my dad walking home from Vietnam all his life. He never made it, so my mom and I didn’t make it either. I didn’t want Lee to bring that kind of life home to us.”

Which is exactly what happened to a lot of vets, Hank thought. Christ, how many times do we have to see this movie?

“When he got back I wanted to punish him. I always intended to go back to him. Just couldn’t bring myself to act like nothing happened. So I froze him out for about six months. By the time I tried to make up, he was way weird. Dancin’ with himself. No room for a partner.”

“As a general rule, vets don’t need any more punishment than they already got.”

“I know that now. I shouldn’t have done it. Lee and a family was all I ever wanted.”

“So what’d you do finally?”

“Tried seeing him for a few months. Mostly couldn’t find him or we’d go out and he would immediately get drunk. Couldn’t get a fix on him. Last time I talked with him he was nowhere to be found. Started dating a little.”

“What was that like?”

“Like meeting strangers with problems they wanted to make mine.” She shook her head. “Why on earth did he reenlist? Why didn’t he get out when you did?”

“Don’t know. Never figured it out. Might have got hooked on war-think — it’s like a drug. Or might have believed in it. They’re not the same things. Some guys couldn’t care less about the mission, they just crave the action.”

“What are you going to do if you find him?”

“Try talking sense to him. Of course, he might be short on sense. Way I see it, he doesn’t have any real options. Can’t play Master of Negwegon forever. He must know that. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to wing it.” He thought about some of the vets he had counseled. Good days, bad days. Catch them on a good day, everything’s cool. Catch them on a bad day — way, way past common sense.

Red looked like she was tearing up. A small sob slipped out, but she kept striding straight ahead. No Jody had warmed her bed while Lee was away or since he came home. She loved Lee, always had. She gripped Hank’s arm hard. “You know he’d never hurt you.”

“Right,” Hank said. “I wonder if that’s what the kid on the Yamaha thought.”

When they reached Pewabic, Hank gave Red a hug and said he’d call a couple of times a day. He lugged the kayak the remaining mile to South Point, crossing a little bog with planks for steps and his favorite cedar-lined meadow. Alone on Potawatomi Trail a feeling was creeping up that was not much different from the ice in his gut when he was driving a Humvee down a dirty street in Fallujah.

Hank was tired and didn’t bother organizing his little camp. He tossed his mummylike sleeping bag on top of the picnic table, curled up in it, and was out.

He awakened in the cool predawn mist and put his hunch into action. He carried his weathered Necky across the marshy fringe of South Point, a rocky finger that jutted out into Thunder Bay. When the marsh gave way to calf-deep water and tall green reeds, he slipped into the boat, using the light, double-bladed graphite paddle to push himself along. He positioned himself at the end of the point but remained a few yards back in the marsh to conceal the boat. From this vantage point he could use his binoculars to scan the entire sandy beach of the horseshoe bay, almost two miles point-to-point.

The sixteen-foot sea kayak was essentially a light, hollow fiberglass and Kevlar tube with a centered cockpit. Hank’s weight was spread out over such a long, light surface that water displacement was minimal, allowing the craft to float and maneuver in extremely shallow water.

Hank knew Lee could be sitting in an open, breezy birch grove or hiding out in the low, huddling cedar swamps. He could be lying on his back in a meadow. But it was August. He wasn’t hiding out in Negwegon for the muggy forest. He was hiding out in Negwegon for the open water.

If Hank was right, Lee would show up on this beach. Seeing that it was deserted, he’d come out of the woods for a swim. He’d come out to bask in the sun. He’d come out to walk along the fresh, bracing shoreline. He wouldn’t linger — too exposed — but he’d have to get his big-lake fix. And when he did and after he left, Hank would paddle quickly across the bay and pick up his trail. At that point Hank would be minutes away from catching up to him and Lee would be ignorant of his pursuit. Surprise would be on his side.

The antithesis of the desert is not the ocean. You can die of thirst in either place. The antithesis of a vast, arid desert is the magnificence of a great sweet-water lake. Hank and Lee had both swallowed the gritty sand of the high desert and the rocky dust of the low desert. Their skin had been dried out by desert winds, like dried plants in a florist’s window. Immediately after his discharge, Hank had camped on the beach at Negwegon for several weeks. He couldn’t get enough of the big lake. The craving was deep and abiding. You didn’t shake it. He was betting Lee felt the same way. Hank’s impulsive swim upon arrival had not been entirely within his control.

Hank took a quick look at tiny Scarecrow Island to the east. His glasses went by a couple of black ducks as he returned to study the beach. He scoped the beach carefully, then let the binoculars hang from his neck as he folded his arms and leaned back. His lower body was stretched out comfortably inside the boat. He sat perfectly still. He was “still hunting,” just as if he were waiting for a nice eight-point to walk into his line of sight. The dawn had broken clear and calm. It would be straight, fast, flat-water kayaking this morning — if he did any paddling at all.

He smiled to himself. If Lee didn’t show, this might turn out to be the best stakeout he’d ever had. Damn near a vacation. Kayak as prowler, marsh as darkened street, the tree line a doorway from which Lee could emerge at any moment. He should have brought a fishing pole, try to pull a big tasty smallmouth out of the reeds. He dozed a little, rousing himself just enough to scan the beach with the binos.

For a change of scenery he occasionally looked at Scarecrow Island and was doing that when he realized he’d been suffering from what the shrinks call “inattentional blindness,” where you see what you expect to see rather than what’s really there. The black ducks he’d been passing over weren’t black ducks. Now, brought into better focus because they were closer, he saw a swimmer with a partially submerged stowfloat bag behind him on a dragline.

Hank’s binos froze on the swimmer. There was no doubt. He couldn’t believe his luck. Instinctively he reached down to the waterproof bag nestled by his seat and took out his little “get off me”.38 Smith backup and stuck it in the waistband of his cargo shorts. Then he called Red.

“Cecil.”

“Red, the best thing that could have happened has happened. He’s swimming toward the beach from Scarecrow Island. Must have been holed up there. I’m hidden in my kayak at the tip of South Point watching him. Come to the edge of the woods about one hundred yards south of the point. If I’m not in yet, stay out of sight. Don’t come out on the beach until I bring him in. Seeing you might set him off. I don’t want any distractions until he’s cuffed.”

“Roger that... Try not to hurt him, Hank.”

“Christ, he’s in the water, Red. Never had a better drop on anybody. It’s going to be all right.”

Hank sat for a few minutes waiting for Lee to swim deeper into the bay and past his hideout at the point. He wanted to paddle up behind him, remaining unnoticed as long as possible.

He watched Lee swim through the dark blue water with strong, rhythmic strokes and it was as if he were swimming back through time. Hank was struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu. The moment itself was singular and beautiful and like so many shared before. Lee’s bronze face bearded and hard but still somehow boyish. Sky and lake and beach from years ago, but this time no scholarship waiting, no bright future. What was waiting was a cage somewhere, a cage that was going to be his home for a long, long time. His pulse quickened as he slid the paddle into the water and pushed the boat out of the reeds.

The turquoise craft moved swiftly across the calm bay. In silence Hank came up about thirty yards behind Lee and shipped his paddle, just drifting along. He could hear Lee’s heavy breathing; the distance Lee had covered would be almost two miles. Then Lee rolled over to move into a backstroke, saw the kayak, and his motion stopped. He began slowly treading water.

Hank eased the kayak a little closer.

Hank said, “Had breakfast?”

“Thought you were bringing me some.”

“Got some MREs in my kit.”

“You call that breakfast? Why should we eat that shit now that we’re out?”

“Because it’s all I got,” Hank said.

“You been gone a while,” Lee said. “I thought you were finished with this place.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Lee. Not for me. Not for you.”

“Frenchie called you, huh?”

“Frenchie and Red.” Hank wanted Lee to know they were both involved and nearby.

Hank studied the man in the water. Didn’t look threatening. Looked calm. Didn’t look like a throat-slashing kid killer. But he knew Frenchie had contacted him; must have had a reason to think that. Still, Frenchie might be wrong. After all, no witnesses.

It shouldn’t have been a languid moment, but it turned into one. They were just floating there on the glassy, sparkling bay, Hank rocking gently in the kayak, Lee on his back, moving his arms and legs like a willow in a breeze. The sunlight spread over them like a fine warm oil. A lazy warmth, the kind that tempts turtles and snakes out onto the rocks and puts them right to sleep. A slight offshore breeze wafted over them, carrying the scent of white pine, red cedar, and other essences of the north. Swept away were the alien experiences that had shattered their friendship.

“I remember we were out here two days after you hit that walk-off against Bay City,” Hank said. “Just floatin’ on inner tubes, mindin’ our own business. Red grillin’ hot dogs on the beach.”

They began to chat about old things, about pre-9/11, prewar things. It went on for a while, just a reunion of two old friends gabbing away and laughing at events recalled.

“Doesn’t seem possible that it was just fifteen years ago,” Hank said.

“It wasn’t fifteen years ago,” Lee said. “It was a million years ago.”

“Amen, brother, amen.” A million years ago. A million years ago and a war ago and maybe a murder ago, Hank thought. But there was no point in pressing Lee. Hank thought of it as similar to a hostage negotiation. If they’re talking, you’re winning. And he had the drop.

“So you were hanging out at Scarecrow, huh?” Hank asked.

“Yeah. Had a camp at the mouth of the Euphrates on the south side of Squaw Bay but it got overrun.”

Hank almost laughed and said that the Euphrates was six thousand miles away, then saw it for what it was: the first signal of delusion. He became cautious with his words.

“Overrun by who?”

“Can’t be sure, there’s so many splinter groups around here.” Lee’s face darkened. His movements in the water became jerky, agitated. “They get inside the perimeter. Them and the ash borer. Killing everything. You seen the ash?”

“Yeah, damn shame. They’re a huge chunk of the park.”

“Not just the park. Of the whole country,” Lee said, his voice rising. “Fifty million trees so far.”

It looked to Hank like a paranoid episode was on the way. They were hard to deal with under the best of circumstances. How you deal with one from a kayak he had no clue. He tried to take control.

“Lee, why don’t we talk this over on the beach. Why don’t you start swimming for the beach.”

“And if I don’t, you gonna blow me in half right here in the bay?”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Because I figure you’ve got a nine-millimeter or a forty-five handy in the cockpit there.”

“Believe me, Lee, I’m here to help you... Come on, why don’t you keep going like you were — straight to the beach.”

“Hell, Hank, you’re not taking me to the beach. You’re taking me somewhere a hell of a lot farther away than that.”

Hank straightened up in the boat. “Lee, stop jawing and start swimming.”

Lee kept treading water. He turned his face into the water and turned back spitting out a narrow stream. “You can taste the Euphrates,” he said. “Everything’s changing.” He slipped out of the loose dragline attached to the stowfloat bag. “Hey, Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it a nine or a forty-five?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really, ’cause holdin’ a gun on somebody only works if they give a shit.”

Lee exploded straight up out of the water almost to his thighs. He came down with a tremendous splash and from the white spray launched a thrashing, powerful butterfly straight toward the kayak, closing the distance like a killer whale speeding toward its prey. Hank froze for just an instant. He grabbed for his Smith but hesitated, saw Lee dead, saw Red crying, and in those few short seconds Lee reached the kayak, latching onto the stern and easily flipping the slim arrow of a boat.

Hank saw the sky spin and found himself hanging upside down, choking in cold water, his lower body jammed into the boat. As he tried to slide out, he saw Lee swimming toward him like a ghost, a combat Bowie in his hand. His face was flat and unemotional, a death mask. Then a strong arm had Hank in a steel-like hammerlock, pulling him down where it was deeper and darker. His life didn’t flash before his eyes. What flashed was the simple understanding that he’d never used a kayak to land a man before and had done the whole thing all wrong. His lungs gave out in a white bubbly cloud.

Hank rose through a cylinder of blackness until all was light, coming to in a coughing, gagging cloud of confusion. Completely disoriented, he turned on his side and kept coughing up water. His throat was raw. He was freezing. The August sun was a godsend. He was on the beach, barely out of the water.

Red was leaning over him. Her shirt was off and Hank realized it was draped over him. He remembered Lee coming for him, felt his arm around his neck.

“Lee?” he rasped.

Red straightened up, tugging at a strap of her black sports bra. She nodded toward the lake. Close to shore in shallow water the kayak was floating unevenly, its bow forced skyward by the weight of the body draped over the stern. Bronzed shoulders gleamed in the sun.

“I came out of the woods,” Red said. “Lee had you laid over the boat. I called to him to move away from you but he pulled a knife. I had no choice.”

Hank nodded. He was hazy but he knew the water where Lee had attacked him was much farther out, well over their heads. For the boat and Lee to be this close to shore Lee would have had to be bringing him in. But Red wouldn’t have known that.

Hank looked at the boat and the body. It wasn’t really suicide by cop. It was something a hell of a lot more personal than that.

His throat was burning. He looked at Red. Her face was distraught but she was dry-eyed. Her father had been walking home from Vietnam until the day he died. Would she be walking away from this until the day she died? He didn’t think so. Red was tough, knew how to stay within herself. Frenchie had taught her that.

Red fumbled in her pocket for her phone. “I haven’t called Frenchie,” she said, her hands shaking. “There wasn’t time. We have to get you to the ER. Bad things can happen the first few hours after near drowning.”

Hank looked out at Lee, the gentle waves washing away the dust from someone else’s desert. That’s where Lee would want to stay, as far away from the desert as he could get. Not a part of Negwegon exactly, but close enough. Hank put his hand on Red’s and squeezed gently, stopping the call.

“Let’s not call Frenchie just yet,” he said.