12

Running Dogs

Mulheisen was no tourist. He’d spent a couple of hours in Traverse City the day before and hadn’t even noticed its main attraction, the bay. Actually, there were two bays, separated by a long, narrow peninsula; on the map it was the space that created the little finger on the mitten of Michigan. From his eighth-floor room in the hotel the view in the morning was spectacular, if one had a taste for shining lakes, rolling hills, and gorgeous fall foliage. He could see the east bay below, beyond it the Old Peninsula, and beyond that the west bay. Mulheisen wasn’t in the mood for it, but he could hardly ignore the glorious scenery.

His main concern was getting free of Joe Service, not a prospect he’d ever envisioned. He had sometimes imagined that he would be happy to see the man safely tucked away in prison. All that was changed, of course. What he felt was that he needed to be free of Joe Service, free to do some things that Service’s presence seemed to inhibit. But he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be so easy to shake him. For one thing, he was dependent on Service for transportation.

They were at breakfast, not in the huge and too-fancy resort hotel but at a pleasant little country restaurant several miles from Traverse City. Service had the idea that the city was not the safest place for them. Colonel Tucker and his crew would be looking for them and Traverse City was the obvious place to look, with its airport and bus terminals. It wasn’t a big enough city to hide in. A few hardworking agents had a good chance of spotting them. They would, for instance, almost certainly discover that they’d stayed at the high-rise hotel, although it might be pretty low down the list of hotels to check. Just a telephone check would reveal that Mulheisen had registered, though not Joe Service—he’d used an alias.

Once one drove out of the city a considerable array of convenient options presented themselves—motels, restaurants, resorts, dozens of small lakes with cabins. This was prime tourist country and the fall color tour was on. Joe had driven to a little place up in the highlands, among blazing hardwoods under a beautiful blue sky. Mulheisen would have preferred rain, but Joe was upbeat. He was a blue-sky boy.

Mulheisen wanted to know what was going on and to get his car back. Independence was a burning need. He was not, after all, a dog who ran with the pack. He was grateful for the rescue, but that was last night.

Joe suggested that they find an obscure little resort cabin to use as a base of operations. Joe offered to register for them, with a name that Tucker would never identify with either of them. Mulheisen rejected that.

“We’re like two guys in a horse costume,” Mulheisen said.

Joe laughed. “Sounds like fun.”

“That depends on whether you’re the horse’s ass,” Mulheisen rejoined. “Either way, you can’t run with the field.”

Mulheisen’s mood improved as he hungrily dug into breakfast: pancakes with dried cherries drenched in local maple syrup. After two forkfuls he decided it was his favorite breakfast ever. Especially with local country sausage. With every bite he remembered the warnings of Dr. Hundly. But he felt that diet was something he’d have to worry about later. He had too many other problems to think about for now.

Joe was giving him a highly edited version of his employment with Tucker. Mulheisen understood that the account was necessarily short on details; he was, after all, a cop, even if a retired one. Joe Service wasn’t about to provide complete information; who knew what Mulheisen’s next role might be? The account was interesting, nonetheless.

“Tucker is some kind of empire builder,” Joe said. “Maybe it’s the natural way of spies. He’s got angles, little groups he’s formed over the years. What do they call it . . . networking? Something like that. Well, we all do stuff like that. I suppose when you were on the force you had your own little groups—allies, snitches, resources. I do a little of that myself.”

Mulheisen nodded. But, as he told Service, he’d pretty much put that kind of stuff behind him. Tucker sounded like a guy who reveled in it. “Tell me more about this Lucani outfit,” he said.

Joe explained what he had learned about it. “The essence of it, of course,” he said, “is that no one knows but the Colonel who all is involved. Maybe he has other groups too. But this one seems to be special. I’m not sure how much of it is known to his bosses. Maybe none of it, maybe all of it. But I’d be surprised if they knew about his association with guys like this Luck character. Still, what do I know? Maybe it’s all part of his program.”

“But I thought you said that it was a group of disaffected agents,” Mulheisen said.

“That’s the way it was presented to me,” Service said. “But for all I know that’s just what he, and they, want me to know. The point is, the Lucani got me out of that hospital.”

“Why?”

“Obviously, to help them infiltrate Humphrey’s outfit. I helped them. In the long run, though, Humphrey slipped through their fingers.”

“Slipped through everyone’s fingers,” Mulheisen grunted. “Except for the Reaper’s.” He finished up his pancakes. He knew that someone had gotten to Humphrey ahead of him. He supposed that had been Joe’s work. Obviously, Joe wasn’t going to tell him about that, so he didn’t bother to ask. It was a dead issue, dead as Humphrey. “And now he wants you to help find these bombers. What do you know about that?”

“Nothing,” Service said. “But he wants me involved. He’s put out the word, with the help of Luck, that I was tied in. He must think that will bring me in. That’s the way he works, always from an angle, always some kind of misdirection. If all he wanted is my investigative help, why not just ask for it? But, no, that’s not his way.”

He shook his head at Tucker’s deviousness. “You know, Mul, I’ve made it my business to find things—information, people, money. I’m good at it. I have my own contacts in the so-called underworld. If there’s a connection there, I could find it.”

“So why aren’t you helping him?”

Service shrugged. “Tucker’s a manipulater. He thinks he’s some kind of genius psychologist, maybe, but if he was he ought to know that I hate that kind of screwing around. I’m not against helping him, I just don’t like the way he goes about it. Wheels within wheels, little plots and subplots that you don’t know about. I need clarity,” Joe declared, “a view of the terrain. Otherwise, I feel like the guy in the hind end of the horse. I can’t operate that way. Carmine was like that, you never knew what was going on. But Humphrey, he’d level with you. Still, I have to admit, if Tucker had asked straight out, I’d have told him to get lost. ‘Sorry, not interested.’ I helped him with his other stuff—I felt obligated. So I paid him back for his help. But I’ve had enough of his games.”

“But now he’s pulled you in anyway,” Mulheisen said. “Well, I’m in a different situation. I’m interested in getting to the bottom of this but I’m like you, I don’t like being manipulated. And now it’s gone too far. There are other angles, too, that puzzle me.”

“Like what?” Service wanted to know.

“Why is he involved with Luck? What is Luck up to? And what does it have to do with the bombing?”

“So, what do we do?” Joe asked.

“We?” Mulheisen smiled.

Joe smiled back. “I’d like to help.”

“Joe, I’m out of my depth,” Mulheisen said. “I don’t even know what’s going on. I’m no longer a sworn officer. I should be calling the sheriff, except that I don’t trust the sheriff. I should be talking to some old pals at the DPD, but I’m not sure of that either. I’m not used to operating like this. I feel lost.”

“Who don’t?” Joe shrugged. “Look at it this way: we’re not officials, but we’ve got resources. And the thing is, you know and I know that the Colonel and his friends are looking for us and as long as we don’t know what they intend, it’s probably best if they don’t find us, at least until we get a clearer idea of what the game is.”

Mulheisen sighed, at least internally. Service was right. “What I’d like to do is get my car,” he said. “I feel too hampered without it.”

“We could do that,” Joe said. He went on to explain that as long as Luck and Tucker didn’t know that they were allied, he had a considerable latitude to act. “For instance, I could steal your car.”

Mulheisen had to laugh. “And then what?”

“Well, it’s a pretty obvious vehicle. You shouldn’t be driving it around. But if you’re worried about it, I could get it, I’m sure. Then we could park it somewhere and rent another vehicle to use. What do you need it for anyway?”

Mulheisen didn’t feel he could explain. He was sure that Joe hadn’t been fully forthcoming with him about his own activities. Mulheisen didn’t want to be too frank about his plans. “But,” he said, “there are some things about Luck that I’d like to find out. Maybe the most important thing is, I need to feel that my mother is all right, that she’s not going to be harassed.”

“We can work that out,” Joe said.

Mulheisen supposed it was so, but he felt impotent. For all his independent attitude, he realized now that he’d always been deeply dependent on being in an official position, with authority, with an official legal apparatus at his fingertips. Now what did he have? A disaffected outlaw who wanted to be his sidekick. It didn’t encourage him.

“You have to take stock,” Joe advised. “Who do you know who would help you? What kinds of friends do you have? Do you know anyone in these parts?”

Mulheisen told him about the mechanic, Charlie. He’d been helpful.

“Well, that’s one,” Joe said. “Who else?”

Mulheisen thought. Suddenly, for no reason that he could think of, it flashed into his mind that he’d met some friendly folks up this way several years ago, when he was investigating an earlier case. This case had involved a man who was the chief counsel for an insurance company and been involved in a massive insurance swindle. The man had run into unexpected trouble when his wife discovered his involvement. He’d had his wife killed. Mulheisen had tracked the man to his summer home in the middle of a brutal cold snap following an incredible blizzard that had nearly paralyzed the state of Michigan for days. The summer home had been near a well-known resort some miles south of here, Jasper Lake.

In the event, Mulheisen had caught his man and his hired killer. But the stolen money, in the form of bearer bonds, had disappeared.

Mulheisen remembered what had happened to the money. A private investigator had taken it. Somehow, this clever fellow, in the employ of then mob boss Carmine Busoni, had slipped into the midst of an altercation between the disgruntled killer and the maddened executive, and while they were distracted with their own dispute he’d absconded with the loot. This clever fellow was Joe Service.

It had been Mulheisen’s first contact with Service. He hadn’t known much about him then. Later, he’d gotten to know too much about him. It wasn’t at all clear if Joe Service was aware that Mulheisen knew of his involvement in this case; they’d had very little, if any, direct contact on it. In fact, it was only later, after he’d questioned the two principals, that Mulheisen tumbled to the fact that it was Service who had been the mysterious interloper.

Mulheisen shook his head. “I can’t think of anybody else,” he said.

Service said, “Well, you know Charlie. You think he’d hide you out?”

“Do I need to hide out?”

“What do you think?” Service said. “Those guys were holding you, probably for Tucker to show up and tell them how to dispose of you. I’d say they were going to relocate you permanently, underground, in some undisclosed location. Your cop connection isn’t worth much now, you’re on your own. You’re on the street, Mul. You have to fall back on friends, take stock, figure out your next move.”

Mulheisen sipped his coffee and thought about it.

“I’m happy to help,” Joe Service said. “We’ve got a common purpose.”

“Really? How’s that?” Mulheisen asked.

Service sighed. “I told you: my whole world is at stake with the Colonel, and with his buddy Luck. I can’t afford to just walk away. Pretty soon, they’ll figure out it was me who sprung you. Now, I know a lot of useful people, Mul. It’s my life. Networking. I could disappear, I’m sure, but I don’t want to do that. But you? Can you hide out for the rest of your life? No way. You’ve got your mother to think about.”

“I was thinking about Luck,” Mulheisen said. “He’s the key. And a part of the key is his late wife, I suspect.”

Joe Service perked up. Mulheisen spelled out some of his suspicions: the wife’s odd disappearance, but possibly her presence in Luck’s life to start with.

“I could help with that,” Service said. “I told you, that was my business, finding out things like that. I’ve still got lots of contacts.”

“Do you think you can find out who she was?” Mulheisen said.

“It’s possible. Even probable,” Service said. “Want me to try?”

“Sure. But first I need to liberate my vehicle.”

“Let’s check with Charlie,” Service said.

On the drive to Queensleap, Mulheisen said, “You said something last night about Hook. What was that all about?”

Joe related what he’d heard from Fedima—he didn’t go into details about her history, except to say that she had been in Kosovo. “It’s a stretch,” Joe said, “but it could be the same guy. I thought I’d mention it to Tucker, if the occasion ever came up, see what he thinks of it. Just a coincidence of names, probably.”

“There are no coincidences,” Mulheisen said.

In Queensleap, they simply pulled into Charlie’s gas station. When Charlie came out to pump the gas, wiping his hands on an oily rag, Joe rolled down the tinted window and Mulheisen said, “Hi.”

“I’ll be damned,” Charlie said. “Hey, there’s some revenooers lookin’ for you.”

“I know,” Mulheisen said. “I need a little help. This is my associate. He’ll tell you his name, but it’ll be a lie.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said, stuffing his rag in his hip pocket and leaning on the door. “What kind of help you need?”

“It’s about your old school chum, Imp,” Mulheisen said.

“Is Imp after you? Or are you after Imp?” Charlie asked.

“Both. What I need is to get my car. It’s up at the motel.”

“I could have it towed,” Charlie said. “Johnny Dobbs’s boy, Lester, does all my towing. He could bring it to Dobbs’s Garage, or he’ll bring it here. But do you want to be driving around in that car? It sticks out like Johnny’s pecker when he sees a woman.”

“Just bring it here, if it can be done without bringing the revenooers with it,” Mulheisen said. “When I went by to get it before, the sheriff was up there, keeping an eye on it.”

“They ain’t now, as far as I can tell,” Charlie said, “but it could be someone is watching. Lemme think.” He stood and audibly scratched his chin. “Maybe I oughta just take a run up there and have a look. Pull your truck into that open bay.” He pointed toward his garage. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

The two men waited while Charlie jumped in his truck and drove the four blocks or so up the hill to the Queen’s Castle Motel. He was back before any customers deigned to stop.

“I think it’ll be all right,” he said. “Trudy Morehouse is running the front desk. Lester knows her. I didn’t see nobody else around.” He went to the phone and dialed. “Hey, Johnny! Yeah. I need Lester to go pick up a car for a customer, haul her down to me. It’s at the motel. If Trudy’s up there, which I think she is, and she asks, it’s for the sheriff. Thanks.”

He hung up and said, “Anything else you need, Mul?”

Mulheisen shook his head. “Just like that, eh?”

“Wal, a feller buys you a drink, you got to reciprocate.” He grinned. “I like that word. Especially if it means piss in Imp’s boot. What’s Imp done to you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He pissed in my boot,” Mulheisen said. “What did he ever do to you?”

“’Bout the same,” Charlie said. “You ever run into a guy that just rubbed you the wrong way? That’s Imp. That sumbitch all’s had everything his way, ever since we was kids. I never liked him. His ol’ man, Eb, was all right, I thought, what I knew of him, but Imp was a pain in the butt. Anything else I can do for you? How ‘bout you, Phantom?” he said to Joe.

Service just laughed. “Actually, Mul’s too polite to ask, but he needs a place to stay. Someplace quiet and private, if you know what I mean.”

Charlie thought he might have something in that line. It wasn’t too fancy, he said, but it had a phone. He could also provide an old pickup truck. “It runs good,” he said. “Four-wheel drive and everything. Got a good radio. It’ll get in and out of the cabin.”

The cabin was back in the woods, at the end of a long road, next to the Manistee River. Good brown trout water there, Charlie said. The cabin had been built by a friend of Charlie’s, Old Tom Adams—“his grandfather invented the Adams fly, for Tom! One of the greatest fishermen ever.” Adams had built the cabin himself, as a fishing retreat, and when he died he left the cabin to Charlie, having no heirs. Charlie didn’t use it much. “Only trouble was,” Charlie said, “he built it on some land belonged to Eb Luck. Tom claimed Eb give him the property, and I think he did, but we ain’t never found a deed. Still, Eb never contested it. I used go out there with Tom and fish and drink. But with him gone it wasn’t the same. Made me lonely. Fish were gone, too.”

Nowadays, he rented it for hunting—“For a ton of bucks to some guys from down below. Imp wants it back, but he ain’t getting it.” The hunters wouldn’t be up for a couple of weeks; until then it was just lying empty. Mulheisen was welcome to it. Charlie refused any payment, and ditto for the truck.

Mulheisen was amazed. The cabin was ideal. As Charlie had warned, “it wasn’t too fancy.” It also needed some cleaning. It was a log building, but built with vertical half-logs in a clever system that alternated the interior half-logs in such a way that they covered the joints of the exterior logs and permitted a layer of insulation; it was very tight and snug. There was a single room for kitchen and living, with a so-called cathedral ceiling. A bedroom, bath, and utility room took up the rear and above that was a large loft that overlooked the living area, obviously where the hunters slept.

The cabin had electricity, running water, an indoor toilet with a shower, and a woodstove. The hunters brought cots, Charlie had said, and slept five or six there. Refrigerator—Mulheisen had stocked up at a store out on the highway, well east of Queensleap—no television, but plenty of privacy. No other buildings seemed to be within miles.

It was positioned on the side of a hill, at the edge of a mixed forest of hardwood and pine, with the river flowing by in a great bend, some thirty feet below the cabin, no more than fifty feet away. The river was quiet, sliding smoothly past. Beyond it lay a great marsh, with dense cedar. One could see for miles to a distant wooded ridge.

The property abutted Luck’s property, according to a large U.S. Forest Service topo map that was pinned to the kitchen wall. The map had numerous ballpoint markings, obviously drawn in by hunters to indicate good hunting sites, or routes to get to them. Between this property and Luck’s house was a considerable forest, an entire section on the map. By road, it was easily five miles, a long, awkward route.

Joe had driven out with Mulheisen to the site, although it was understood that he wasn’t staying. He had plenty to do in town, he said. But he was clearly charmed by the cabin and the setting. “I’ve got to get myself something like this. I tell you, Mul, you fell into it here.” He walked about admiring the handiwork, explaining that he had become something of a carpenter himself lately.

Mulheisen was surprised. He began to relate his recent experiences in building his study. “It’s turned into a cottage,” he said. “I was thinking, eventually I’ll be moving back into the old homestead, but once the study is finished it’ll be a good retreat. Nothing as fancy as this, no Manistee River at my door, but I do have the lake, the St. Clair River . . .”

Joe said he’d seen the place, when he had visited Mul’s mother. He complimented him on the style and appearance. They fell into a discussion of building problems, flooring, insulation, the cost of plumbing and wiring.

“I like this post-and-beam style,” Joe said. He admired the huge, double-glazed windows that looked out over the river, some thirty feet below, winding in a great bend before turning west and disappearing into a vast cedar forest. The view was impressive—one could see nothing but trees for miles, until the horizon loomed in the blue distance.

“Not a sound,” Joe said, “just the river gurgling by. You fish?”

“Oh, I’ve tried it, when I was out looking for you, in Montana,” Mulheisen said. “I didn’t get the hang of it.”

Joe smiled at the reference to that old episode. “I’ve taken it: up,” he said. “It gets under your skin. This guy was supposed to be a great fisherman. I’ve used those Adams flies. Great all-purpose fly pattern. You can use it just about year-round. I’ll bet he left some gear.” He began to poke around until, sure enough, he found the rods and reels in the utility-room closet. One rod was already strung, with a fly tied on the leader.

Joe brought it out. “Here you go! All set. You ought to go down and cast a bit. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Before he left they settled their plans for contact. Joe warned Mulheisen against using the phone.

“Tucker will have your mother’s phone tapped, I’ll bet,” he said. “Use a pay phone when you’re in Traverse,” he recommended, “or wherever else you get to, as long as it isn’t too close by. I can call you on this phone—I’ll ring twice, then call back. You can figure out some way your mother can reach you, if you’re careful and she doesn’t use her home phone.”

“I think I can figure it out,” Mulheisen said patiently.

Joe caught the tone of exasperation. “I know, I know, I’m the horse’s butt and you’re a hardened ol’ copper. But the thing is, I know how not to get caught by making dumb mistakes. It’s a street thing.”

Mulheisen sighed. “I could use the cell phone.” He’d recovered it, along with his other stuff from the Checker, which was now stashed in Charlie’s garage, out of casual sight.

Joe shook his head in mock despair. “Forget the cell. I don’t know how it works, but they can track those things. Satellites, maybe.”

Mulheisen walked out to the pickup with Joe. They settled that Joe would see what he could find out about Luck’s late wife, Constance. Mulheisen would drive to Cadillac tomorrow, a city to the south about twenty miles, actually somewhat closer than Traverse City but in another county. He’d contact friends at the Detroit Police Department to see if he could gather anymore information from that source.

“I’ll call you when I get a motel,” Joe said, “and we can figure out how to communicate from there.” He stopped at the door of the pickup and said, “You’re not armed, are you? Let me leave a couple of pieces with you.”

Mulheisen refused, but not vehemently. He was shocked to see the arsenal Service revealed. He ended up accepting a Llama 9mm automatic pistol.

“A beautiful piece,” Mulheisen said, turning the elegant handgun over in his hand. “Where did you get it? Or should I ask?”

“A friend of mine left it with me,” Joe said. “It’s a Model XI. Here’s some clips.” He prevailed upon Mulheisen to also accept a Stoner .223 automatic carbine—“Just in case one of Luck’s guys comes snooping around. This will put out a lot of lead without making a big mess. Just leave it in the cabin.”

Mulheisen was relieved when Joe left. He felt like he was on vacation. He spent spent some time sweeping out, washing dishes, and straightening out the bedroom. He even found a clean set of sheets and made the bed. He still had time to walk down to the river with the fly rod Joe had found. He’d had a little practice with casting when he was in Montana, more than a year ago, but he found it difficult at first; the fly wouldn’t turn over and the bushes kept snagging his backcast. Eventually he got the hang of it.

The water was nothing like the mountain streams he’d seen in Montana. This water was opaque, it seemed, not broken into riffles by rocks and gravel bars. He had no idea where to cast, no sense of where the fish might be lying. And after a half hour of erratic casting and untangling the fly from brush, he became discouraged. Like every novice fisherman, he became convinced that there were no fish in this stream. Still, if Old Tom Adams had built his cabin here, he supposed that it was for the obvious reason.

It was getting toward dusk anyway. Time to quit. Suddenly, he noticed that there were quite a few small insects hovering over the water. This must be the famous “hatch,” he thought. And shortly, a fish leaped out of the water, not far off, falling back heavily with a great splash. A trout! He made several casts, each one an improvement. The fly line hardly made a single splat. And with the very next cast, he hooked something!

It was astounding. The fish leaped into the air, almost three feet—to his eyes—and with a terrific contortion snapped the leader. The trout disappeared.

Mulheisen stood on the edge of the water, his mouth open in awe. So that was it! He was amazed. He’d actually hooked a trout. He thought, That son of a gun must have been . . . oh, two feet long! He suddenly realized his feet were getting wet. He scrambled back to the bank.

He was thrilled. But it was too dark to go on. He knew he’d never be able to tie on another fly. In fact, he hadn’t one with him. He went back to the cabin and prepared a sandwich and drank some water. He felt very good.

Thoughts of his mother intruded. He drove out in the old truck along the two-track road and eventually got on the highway. He went to the place where he’d bought his groceries and made a call. He wanted to tell her about the trout, but as it happened she had already gone to bed. He told the nurse not to wake her. He asked if anyone had been around, asking for him, but the nurse said no, not that she knew, but she hadn’t been there earlier, of course.

Mulheisen thought quickly. Then he said, “Tell her I may be home tomorrow, but if I’m not, I’ll call. I may ask a friend to stop by, possibly later this evening, just to sort of check up. He’s a policeman, Captain Marshall. Let’s see, you go off duty in a couple of hours, don’t you? He’ll stop by before that, if he can, but don’t worry if he can’t make it.”

The nurse said that would be fine, and if Captain Marshall didn’t show up before her relief, she’d leave a message.

He called Jimmy Marshall at home.

Marshall was excited. “People looking for you, man,” he said. “What’s up?”

Mulheisen asked him to go to his mother’s house. “I know it’s a long way, clear across town, but I need your help,” he said. What he wanted, he explained, was for someone he could trust to check out the situation there. His mother had met Jimmy and liked him. Then he explained in some detail about his detention, but for some reason he left Joe Service out of the account.

He gave the phone number at the cabin. “You can call me there, but not from Ma’s,” Mulheisen said. “She’s already in bed, there’s no need to wake her. Just make sure there’s no one snooping around and everything’s all right. There will be a nurse there. You can leave a message with her. She, or my mother, can call me at the cabin, in case of an emergency. By the way, did you check out that Dr. Johnson, in Indiana?”

“Yeah. He’s deceased,” Jimmy said. “Died two years ago.”

“Damn,” Mulheisen said. “That would be not long after Constance Luck died. How’d he die?”

“He was killed, Mul. Got blown up in his car.”

Mulheisen was silent. “No other details?” he said, after a moment.

“I talked to a guy on the Indianapolis squad. They didn’t have a clue. And now, guess what? The files are impounded. Homeland Security.”

“What does your friend say, in Indianapolis?” Mulheisen wanted to know.

“They were working on the theory it was drug-related,” Jimmy said. “The trouble was, Dr. Johnson wasn’t ever suspected of that: kind of activity. He was just a GP, in family practice. He’d never been implicated in any drug dealings.”

“Could you check on Constance Luck, or Constance Malachi, as far as where, when, or if she was buried in those parts? How far does this Homeland Security thing go? Would it prevent you from finding out if she ever lived in Indianapolis?”

Jimmy didn’t grumble at any of these requests. He just said he’d call back after he’d been out to St. Clair Flats.

Mulheisen thought about all this on his way back to the cabin. It was another pitch-black night. He’d noticed while he was fishing that clouds were moving in; it looked like they had arrived. It began to sprinkle while he was slowly pushing the old truck up the long lane. By the time he got to the house it was raining, a good steady rain.

He settled down to study the topo map, particularly Luck’s property. Jimmy would be a while, he knew. But it was very odd: sitting in this lighted house, with huge front windows, surrounded by utter darkness. He felt like a target. He couldn’t concentrate. Soon, he turned out the lights and sat in the dark, listening to the rain drum on the metal roof. It was coming down pretty steadily. He thought it was the most soothing and relaxing sound he’d ever heard.