Page 45 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

As they drove up the dirt road, Lake Charmaine in all its splendor rose before them. The sun glistened off the water. Myron checked the GPS. It instructed them to circle to the other side of the lake. They veered to the left and drove past the kind of log cabin you thought existed only in old movies. A car with an MD license plate was parked in front of it. On the dock, a man about Myron's age cast out his fishing line slowly, gracefully, like poetry in motion. He then handed the rod to a small boy and put his arm around a woman's waist. They stood there, this idyllic family of three, and Myron thought about Terese. The man on the dock turned at the sound of the car. The woman kept her eyes on the little boy with the fishing rod. The man's eyes narrowed as Myron and Win cruised past. Myron waved to show him that they meant him no harm. The man hesitated and then waved back.

They drove past ruins of what might have once been camp cabins or cabins used on a retreat or something. A construction crew was now building a house on the site.

"Nancy Moore's new residence?" Win asked.

"Maybe."

A pickup truck was parked at the top of Hunter Moore's long driveway, blocking access.

"Seems he doesn't welcome visitors," Win said.

They parked on the road. Myron and Win got out of the car. Everything echoed in the stillness--the car doors closing, their feet hitting the dirt road. Myron had read once that a sound never fully dies, that if you scream in woods like these, the echo will just keep reverberating, traveling, growing fainter and fainter but never disappearing in total. Myron didn't know whether that was true or not, but if it was, he could imagine a scream here staying vibrant for too long.

"What are you thinking about?" Win asked him.

"How screams echo."

"You're fun."

"Remind me never to buy a lake house."

They walked past the pickup truck and up the drive. Up ahead, in a front yard overlooking all of Lake Charmaine, Hunter Moore sat on an Adirondack chair. He didn't get up when he spotted them. He didn't wave or nod or show any signs he saw them coming. He just kept his gaze on the horizon, on his perfect view of Lake Charmaine. A whiskey bottle sat on his right.

There was a rifle on his lap.

"Hey, Hunter," Myron said.

Win moved to the side a bit, putting distance between him and Myron. Myron got it. Don't give anyone two targets so close together.

Hunter smiled up at him. It was the smile of the heavily inebriated. "Hey, Myron." The sun was in his eyes, so Hunter used his hand to block it. "Is that you, Win?"

"Yes," Win said.

"You're back?"

"No."

"Huh?"

"I'm kidding," Win said.

"Oh." Hunter's cackle-laugh ripped through the stillness. The sound almost made Myron jump. "Good one, Win."

Win looked at Myron. The look said that they had nothing to fear. There was no way Hunter would be able to reach for his rifle and aim it before Win, who was always armed, took him out. They moved closer.

"Look at that," Hunter said with awe, gesturing at the vista behind them.

Myron looked. Win didn't.

"Unbelievable, right?" Hunter said. "This spot"--he shook his head in wonderment--"it's like God painted this giant canvas himself."

"If you think about it," Win said, "he did."

"Whoa," Hunter said, like a stoner. Myron wondered whether he had consumed substances other than alcohol. "That's so true."

"Where's Patrick?" Myron asked.

"I don't know."

Myron pointed to the house behind him. "Is he inside?"

"Nope."

"How about Nancy?"

Hunter shook his head. "Also nope."

"Can we all go inside?"

Hunter kept shaking his head. "No reason to; no one in there. A beautiful day like this is to be cherished. We got a couple of chairs, if you want to sit and enjoy the view with me."

Myron took him up on the offer. This chair too was turned to the lake, so that Myron and Hunter sat side by side, both facing the view rather than each other. Win stayed standing.

"We really need to find Patrick," Myron said.

"Did you call Nancy?"

"She's not answering. Where are they?"

Hunter still had the rifle on his lap. His hand had been slowly sliding toward the trigger, almost indiscernibly. "He needs time, Myron. Can you imagine what his last ten years have been like?"

"Can you imagine," Win said, "what Rhys's current year is still like?"

Hunter winced when he heard that and closed his eyes. Myron was tempted to grab the rifle, but Win shook him off. He was right. The rifle was not a threat. Not with Win nearby. If they snatched it away, Hunter would clam up, get defensive. Let him keep his security blanket.

"You met Lionel," Hunter said. "Dr. Stanton, I mean. He says that if you want Patrick to open up, he needs time. We want a quiet, simple life for him."

"Is that why Nancy is moving him out here?"

A slow smile came to his lips. "This place has always been my solace. I'm third generation here. My grandfather taught my father how to fly-fish on that lake. My father taught me. When Patrick was little, I taught him. We'd catch sunnies and trout and . . ."

His voice faded away.

Win looked at Myron with flat eyes and played the air violin.

"I realize how hard this must have been on you," Myron tried.

"I'm not looking for pity."

"Of course not."

"It's like . . ." Hunter never took his eyes off the lake, never so much as glanced at Myron or Win. "It's like I've lived two lives. I was one person--a normal, ordinary person, really--up until that day. And then, poof, I was someone else entirely after. Like we all walked through some science fiction portal and entered a different world."

"Everything changed," Myron said, trying to keep him going.

"Yes."

"You got divorced."

"Right." His hand found the bottle, his eyes still glued to the vista. "I don't know. That might have happened anyway. But yeah, Nancy and I broke up. The constant reminder of what happened, the horror, and this person, your life partner, she's just there every day, in your face, poking your memory, you know what I mean?"

"I do."

"The pressure becomes so great. I mean, maybe if there are no cracks to start with, you can get past it. But I couldn't handle it. So I ran away. I lived overseas for a while. But I couldn't move on. The horror, the images . . . I started drinking. A lot. Then I would do AA, get better for a little while, start drinking again, sober up. I kept cycling like that. Lather, rinse, repeat."

Hunter held up the bottle. "Guess where I am in the cycle now?"

Silence. Myron crushed it.

"Did you know about the texts between your wife and Chick Baldwin?"

The muscles in his face stiffened. "When?"

Interesting response, Myron thought. He looked at Win. Win found it interesting too. "Does that matter?"

"No," Hunter said. "I don't know, don't care. And she isn't my wife."

Myron turned toward him. "I'm talking about back then. Before your son disappeared. Nancy and Chick were cl

ose to having an affair. Maybe they went through with it; I don't know."

Hunter's grip on the gun tightened. He still stared out, but if the view was offering even an iota of comfort, you wouldn't know it from his face. "Who cares?"

"Did you know?"

"No."

He said it too quickly. Myron looked toward Win. Win said, "I found Fat Gandhi."

That got Hunter's attention. "Is he in jail?"

"No."

"I don't understand."

"He told me that Rhys is dead."

"Oh my God," Hunter said, but the surprise in his voice sounded forced. "He killed him?"

"No. He never met Rhys. He said that Patrick told him that Rhys is dead."

"He said what?"

Win bit back a sigh. "Please don't make me repeat myself."

Hunter shook his head. "So let me get this straight. This psycho criminal who stabbed and almost killed my son"--Hunter looked at Win, then at Myron, then back at Win--"you believe him?"

"We do," Win said.

"Hunter," Myron tried, "don't you think Patrick owes the Baldwins the truth?"

"Of course. Of course they're owed the truth." Hunter looked stunned now. "I'll try to talk to Patrick about this as soon as I can. See what he says."

"Hunter?"

It was Win.

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to use your washroom before we leave."

Hunter smiled up at him. "You think they're inside?"

"I wouldn't know," Win said. "Either way, I need to urinate."

Only Win could use the word "urinate" in a completely natural way in a nonmedical setting.

"Use a tree."

"I don't use trees, Hunter."

"Fine."

As he started to his feet, Win easily grabbed the rifle from him, which was the closest thing to the old saw about stealing candy from a baby Myron had ever witnessed.

"I got a license," Hunter said. "I can shoot deer on my property. It's perfectly legal."

Win looked at Myron. "Would it be beneath me to note that Hunter is a hunter?"

"Way beneath," Myron said.

"Har-har." Hunter stumbled toward the house. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you, uh, urinating and out of here."

Chapter 30

Back in the car, Myron asked, "How was your urination?"

"Hilarious. They aren't there. He's alone. For now."

Myron knew that had been Win's play with the "urination" request. "So why was he holding the rifle?"

"Perhaps he was hunting. It's his property. He has the right. Perhaps that's his thing."

"Hunting?"

"Yes. He sits out there on a lovely day, enjoys his view, imbibes his whiskey--then a deer strolls by and he blasts it."

"Sounds like an awesome time."

"Don't judge," Win said.

"You don't hunt."

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