Both Ends of the Night Read online

  “Lives alone?”

  “Yeah. As far as I know, he never has visitors. In the seven years we’ve been here, your friend’s the only one who’s ever come around asking about him.”

  I glanced at Hy and sighed. “Well, I guess it’s up to us to fly there and drag John home.”

  “I guess.” To the woman he said, “Will you tell us how to get to J.D.’s place?”

  “Sure. He’s at Pickerel Lake, owns all the land around it—big tract. You have a sectional?”

  Hy had brought the chart from the plane, and now he spread it on a nearby table. The three of us leaned over it, the woman pointing out landmarks along the way. “The strip’s on the north side of the lake, easy to pick out because the trees come right down to the water everyplace else, and there’s a small hangar. Cabin’s over here to the west. There’s an old logging road here”—she pointed to the southwest—“next to this little slough.”

  “Sounds as though you’ve been there,” I said.

  “Once, years ago. J.D. ordered some building supplies that he couldn’t haul in the Maule, and he asked my husband and me to fly them out there. After we offloaded, he had us to the cabin, gave us coffee. He’s that kind—southern gentleman, raised right. Still, he couldn’t wait for us to leave.”

  Hy started to fold the sectional. Paused. “You know,” he said to me, “I’m sick of rescuing John from these scrapes he gets himself into.”

  I knew where this was leading—brilliant stroke. “But, dear—”

  “No, honey, I mean it this time. Let him sit out there in the woods and drink all winter, if that’s what he wants to do.”

  “But what if—”

  “No what-ifs. Let John take care of himself for a change. Besides, it’s not a good idea to show up unannounced. This lady said J.D.’s got a lot of guns.”

  I pretended to think that over. “Well, you’re probably right.”

  “You know I am.” To the woman he added, “Thanks for your time. If John comes in to fuel after he sobers up, will you tell him that Mick and Charlotte from Minnetonka are royally pissed at him?”

  “I sure will, mister.”

  The wind was blowing more strongly when we stepped outside the trailer. Once in the shelter of the Cessna, Hy looked up the number of the nearest flight service station in his Airport/Facility Directory and called on my cell phone. I glanced toward the northwest—the direction in which we’d have to fly to get to Pickerel Lake—and noted more cumulus clouds stacked up on the horizon.

  When Hy broke the connection he said to me, “Winds aloft have picked up, and ceilings and visibility are near minimums. There’ve been some pilot reports of moderate precipitation to the west, but the front’s not likely to pass through here for at least an hour. They aren’t saying VFR not recommended. It’s your call, McCone.”

  “You’re pilot in command.”

  “I’m bowing to your better judgment on this. As if you didn’t know, I’m sometimes inclined to fly reckless.”

  I considered, my eyes on the clouds. “We could check out what’s at Pickerel Lake, then turn back for Ely before the front arrives. We could spend the night there, make our plans for when the weather improves.”

  “It’s a go, then?”

  “It’s a go.”

  Twenty-one

  Pickerel Lake was shaped like a fish, its fins and tail and snout formed by sloughs whose dead reeds protruded through the ice. Trees grew down to the waterline, except at the north end, where Dunc Stirling had cleared the land for his airstrip. Next to the strip stood the hangar; there was no plane in sight.

  When I commented on that, Hy said, “Probably in the hangar; in this climate you want to park inside, if possible.” He took the Cessna far down and flew along the strip; the hangar’s double doors were shut.

  Climbing, he continued flying along the lakeshore, west and then south. For a time we saw only trees and ice; then a second clearing appeared to the right. A log cabin with a tin roof stood in its center, surrounded by a welter of objects that mainly looked to be junk. A boat was upended against the railing of the cabin’s tiny front porch, and a battered snowmobile crouched next to it.

  I said, “From a stone mansion to this.”

  Hy put the Cessna into a glide.

  I grabbed his arm. “You don’t want him to realize we’re checking the place out.”

  “Use your eyes, McCone: nobody’s home; there’s no smoke coming from the chimney, and he’d freeze without a fire going.”

  He circled the clearing twice, but no one came out of the cabin. Then he put on full power and turned back toward the lakeshore.

  “Where’re we heading now?”

  “The logging road the woman at Arrowhead mentioned. If it’s in good shape, I’ll put down there, conceal the plane, and we’ll walk in. It’s a good time to take a look around, while the place is deserted.”

  The logging road looked to be in terrible shape.

  “Ripinsky, you can’t!”

  “We’re set up for a perfect short-field landing; even the wind direction’s right.”

  “But that’s a field of boulders!”

  “Watch this.”

  I closed my eyes as the Cessna descended toward the rocky, rutted road. Gripped the edge of my seat as Hy pulled back on the yoke.

  Opened my eyes and said, “Show-off.”

  The logging road soon dwindled to a rough track hacked out of the wilderness. White birches leaned over it on either side, their limbs meeting above us like bleached beams in the nave of a cathedral. Even on this gloomy late afternoon their bark gleamed; I felt as if I were walking down a strange, light-filled aisle. Snow had drifted here, and our footsteps crunched. The cold was bitter enough to penetrate the thermal leggings I had on under my jeans.

  Hy pointed out two sets of animal tracks bisecting the path. “A deer,” he said, “and maybe a fox.”

  He often revealed new facets of his knowledge, but it never failed to surprise me. “Since when are you a tracker?”

  “Since my daddy first took me hunting.”

  “I didn’t know you hunted.”

  “I haven’t in a long time; I’m not much on blood sports.”

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. The track narrowed even more, the birches and jack pine and cedars having reclaimed it. I smelled the pines’ fragrance, thought once again of the Christmas-tree farm, and Matty. My sense of loss was blunted now, because Hy and I were taking action—for her, for Ash Walker, for Zach.

  He put his hand on my shoulder, stopped me. We’d come to the edge of the clearing. The cabin was a small one, with a narrow front porch where a metal garbage can stood, lid weighted with a rock. A shed and outhouse that hadn’t been visible from the air, as well as a food cache perched high on stilts against the incursion of animals, stood several yards behind it, and all around between patches of snow lay the junk: oil drums, a stovepipe, sawhorses, a ladder, scraps of lumber, a broken-bladed ax, bottles and cans, a rusted outboard motor.

  Hy had taken out his gun; I did the same. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I nodded. Quickly we picked our way through the junk to the cabin, mounted its steps, flattened ourselves against the wall to either side of the door. I reached around and turned the knob; it yielded, the door swinging inward. With his left hand Hy fumbled out the flashlight he’d brought from the plane and shone it around the cabin’s interior. Then we stepped inside.

  The cabin was frigid and smelled of old fires and cooking. The rough board shutters of the single room were closed and the logs firmly chinked against the elements. Its furnishings were few and plain: a plank table and straight chair; a narrow bed covered in heavy woolen blankets; a woodstove; a metal foot-locker; an ice chest. Clothing hung from pegs on the wall near the bed; dishes and utensils and supplies filled three long shelves by the stove; fishing poles and guns were lined up in a rack on the rear wall.

  Hy got the oil lamp on the table going, and I went over to check the footlocker. It contained
fishing paraphernalia, ammunition, and mail-order catalogs for such products as hardware. The labels on the catalogs gave the name J. D. Wilson and a post-office box number in Ely. When I shut the locker and turned, I saw Hy sniffing an empty glass that had sat next to a stack of books on the table.

  “Sour mash whiskey,” he said, “the southern gentleman’s drink of choice.”

  “Wonder what he reads while he sips?” I crossed to the table and felt the temperature of a gallon jug of milk that had been left there; no need to put it in the ice chest.

  Hy made a strange sound. I looked up and saw he was holding one of the books. Wordlessly he turned it face out for me to see. It was on the ecology of the Mammoth Lakes area of California, and its introduction had been written by Julie Spaulding. His eyes were so pained that I had to look away, scanning the other books on natural history, geology, and the environment.

  Hy said tightly, “The son of a bitch ordered her best friend’s death, and now he’s going to pay for it.”

  When we stepped outside the cabin, we found night had fallen. The only sound was the distant whine of a plane’s engine, probably above the four-thousand-foot level prescribed for transversing the canoe wilderness area. I said flatly, “We’re stuck here till morning. No way you can risk taking off from that road in the dark.”

  “Then we’ll check around some more before camping out in the cabin. It might be our only opportunity. I want to take a look at that hangar.”

  I peered up at the sky. The dense overcast had lifted, blown away by the strong winds preceding the front. A three-quarter moon shone brightly, and cumulus clouds piled on the other side of the lake.

  “That hangar’s a long walk from here,” I said, “and the weather’s bound to change fast. If we’re going to attempt it, we’d better borrow some survival gear.”

  He nodded and we went back inside. I relighted the oil lamp and searched the shelves, coming up with trail mix and jerky and bottled water. Hy stripped blankets from the bed and appropriated extra jackets. I found a small pack, put the food and a box of matches into it, then went looking for kerosene.

  “McCone, take a look at this.”

  I turned, kerosene container in hand; Hy was pointing to the floor close under the table. I went over, saw the stains. “Looks like dried blood.”

  “Hard to say how old, though. Or whether it’s animal or human.” He moved the flash around, evidently looking for signs of violence. There weren’t any, but that, like the bloodstains, didn’t prove anything either way.

  A sense of unease stole over me. “We’d better get going.”

  Hy went to the rear wall, pulled a rifle from the rack, and checked its load. “Won’t hurt to take along some extra protection.”

  I knew animals weren’t the only predators on his mind.

  We struck out, following the shoreline. It was cold enough to make me shiver in spite of the extra jacket. The moon laid a bright path across the frozen lake, made the ice shimmer. And the piled clouds sank lower, moved closer.

  Hy didn’t speak. It was as though seeing Julie’s name on that book in Dunc Stirling’s cabin had brought him full circle, to the place where he’d been the night after Matty’s crash. Back to the same remote and reckless state of mind as when we’d flown to the Sonoma County airstrip to confront Ed Cutter.

  I took his arm, to let him know I was still with him.

  The storm hit before we reached the strip, with gale-force winds and heavy, wet snow. It clung to our clothing, stung my cheeks, turned Hy’s mustache and eyebrows white as an old man’s. We pressed on, leaning into the wind, struggling to maintain our footing. Once I slipped and went down, and he almost fell on me, trying to help me up. It had grown very dark, and the flashlight’s beam seemed absurdly feeble.

  “Enough of this, McCone. Let’s get in under the branches of this cedar, pull the blankets over us, keep each other warm. I’m sorry about dragging you out here; we should’ve stayed at the cabin.”

  “Should-haves don’t count. We’ll get through it.”

  “How cold do you think it is, Ripinsky?”

  “Way below zero.”

  “Fronts like this are narrow and pass quickly, though.”

  “Usually.”

  “How far to that hangar?”

  “McCone, I don’t know. If this doesn’t pass soon… well, I just don’t know.”

  So far these blankets are keeping our combined heat in, and these snow-covered branches are sheltering us from the worst of the wind. But I’m beginning to understand how people freeze to death. God, I don’t want to find out what it’s like to die this way.…

  “Storm’s mostly past, McCone. Let’s go.”

  “… I’m so sleepy.”

  “Don’t do this to me.”

  “Do what?”

  “Come on, get up. Wind’s died down some, snowfall’s light, and it can’t be far to the hangar.”

  “Can’t I sleep for a while?”

  “Just get up!”

  He grabbed me by my arms and hauled me to my feet. I had to help him. Once I got moving I’d be okay.

  And someday we’ll laugh at this. Maybe.

  I leaned against the hangar’s outside wall, breathing hard. In spite of the cold, my body was coated in sweat, my hair damp under my knit cap. The blankets that Hy had earlier insisted I warp around my shoulders flapped and billowed.

  He took out his gun and moved toward the double doors, but I put my hand on his arm and whispered, “Give me the flashlight. I’ll open one side and shine it around. You cover.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. I told you before, all I needed was to get moving.”

  His eyes still concerned, he pressed the light into my hand and stepped away, took up a shooter’s stance. I grabbed the unlatched hasp on my side and pulled back on it, shielding most of my body with the door but leaning around so I could aim the light inside. Strangely, the air that came through the opening was warm.

  A plane stood in the center of the hangar. Dunc Stirling’s Maule. The floor around it was covered with tools and parts—as much of a chaos as the junk in front of the cabin.

  Hy had moved up beside me. Now he nudged me inside, shut the door behind us. “He’s been working on the plane. From the look of it, I’d say it’s not airworthy.”

  “Then where—”

  I heard a noise, moved the light to the right. Heard another and shone it to the left.

  A man emerged from behind the Maule. In his hand was a pistol, aimed our way.

  Twenty-two

  “Ash Walker!”

  He looked as startled at my exclamation as I imagined Hy and I did at the sight of him. Then his face tightened with fear, and he went into a crouch, finger trembling on the gun’s trigger.

  My first impulse was to throw down the flashlight and go for my gun, my second to hurl myself at Hy and knock him out of a bullet’s trajectory. Then Hy said calmly, “Let’s not panic.” And I said, “Matty sent us. I’m Sharon McCone, one of her former students. This is her friend, Hy Ripinsky. She must’ve spoken of us.”

  Walker remained in a crouch, saying nothing, but his finger relaxed some on the trigger.

  “I’m a private investigator, Ash. Matty hired me to find you.”

  “How do you know my real name?” he asked. “Matty doesn’t.” Then he added, “Don’t come any closer.”

  “When Matty asked me to find you, I backtracked into your past.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you knew I was here.”

  “It’s a long story, and I’ve talked with a lot of people. You remember Iona Fowler, the reporter for the Arkansas Democrat Gazette? She thought you were courageous. Your neighbor in Gulf Haven, Mr. Simmons? He still thinks kindly of you. And then there’s Wes and Karla Payne. And Zach, of course.”

  Walker lowered the gun slightly, looking overwhelmed and disoriented. A little shaky, too.

  “Ash, where’s Stirling?”

  He ignored th
e question, seemed to pull himself together. “Matty and Zach—are they okay?”

  I glanced at Hy. His face was grim; he shrugged.

  “Are they okay?”

  “Zach is, but Matty… Look, can’t we put the guns down and talk?”

  “What’s happened to Matty?”

  No way to avoid or soften what had to be said. “She’s dead.”

  For a moment Walker stood very still; then he shuddered and let his weapon fall to his side. His face—raggedly bearded now—twisted, and he closed his eyes. “How?”

  “She crashed during her routine at the air show. Her plane was tampered with.”

  “But I left her a letter—”

  “She got it, but she refused to do what you told her. She said she didn’t want to give up her whole life, her flying.”

  “Oh, Jesus… And my son? Where’s my son?”

  “With friends of ours in San Francisco. They have a good security system, and Hy put a guard on the house as additional protection.”

  Walker stood with his head bowed, fighting for control. When Hy and I moved deeper into the hangar, he offered no resistance.

  “Zach must be going through hell,” he said thickly. “He loved Matty.”

  Hy said harshly, “We all did.”

  Walker looked up, his eyes wet. “You blame me for her dying.”

  Hy stared stonily at him; then his expression grew conflicted. “It’s more that I’m angry. Angry at you for putting her in such a position. Angry at myself for not dragging her kicking and screaming from the airfield. Hell, I’m angry at her for being dead.”

  I said, “None of us is to blame. We all can name the guilty party.”

  Walker’s lips tightened. He stuck his gun into the waistband of his jeans.

  Hy asked, “You have any idea where Stirling is?”

  Walker shook his head and seemed about to speak when he was seized by a coughing fit. Up close he looked pale and haggard, and his brow was damp.