Chapter One
There is a bullet in my chest, less than a centimeter from myheart. I don't think about it much anymore. It's just a part of menow. But every once in a while, on a certain kind of night, I rememberthat bullet. I can feel the weight of it inside me. I can feelits metallic hardness. And even though that bullet has been warminginside my body for fourteen years, on a night like this when itis dark enough and the wind is blowing, that bullet feels as cold asthe night itself.
It was a Halloween night, which always makes me think aboutmy days on the force. There's nothing like being a policeman inDetroit on Halloween night. The kids wear masks, but instead oftrick-or-treating they burn down houses. The next day there mightbe forty or fifty houses reduced to black skeletons, still smoking.Every cop is out on the streets, looking for kids with gasoline cansand calling in the fires before they rage out of control. The onlything worse than being a Detroit policeman on Halloween night isbeing a Detroit fireman.
But that was a long time ago. Fourteen years since I took thatbullet, fourteen years and a good three hundred miles away, duesouth. It might as well have been on another planet, in another lifetime.
Paradise, Michigan, is a little town in the Upper Peninsula, onthe shores of Lake Superior, across Whitefish Bay from Sault Ste.Marie, or "the Soo," as the locals call it. On a Halloween night inParadise, you might see a few paper ghosts in the trees, whippedby the wind off the lake. Or you might see a car filled with costumedchildren on their way to a party, witches and pirates lookingout the back window at you as you wait at the one blinking redlight in the center of town. Maybe Jackie will be standing behindthe bar wearing his gorilla mask when you step into the place.The running joke is that you wait until he takes the mask off toscream.
Aside from that, a Halloween night doesn't look much differentfrom any other October night in Paradise. It's mostly just pine trees,and clouds, and the first hint of snow in the air. And the largest,coldest, deepest lake in the world, waiting to turn into a Novembermonster.
I pulled the truck into the Glasgow Inn parking lot. All the regularswould already be there. It was poker night. I was a good twohours late, so I was sure they had started without me. I had spent theentire evening in a trailer park over in Rosedale, knocking on doors.A local contractor had been setting a new mobile home when ittipped over and crushed the legs of one of the workers. He wasn'tin the hospital more than an hour before Mr. Lane Uttley, Esquirewas at his side, offering the best legal services that a fifty-percent cutcould buy. It would probably be a quick out of court settlement, hetold me on the phone, but it was always nice to have a witness justin case they try to beat the suit. Somebody to testify that no, the guywasn't stone drunk and he wasn't showing off by trying to balancefive tons of mobile home on his nose.
I started at the scene of the accident. It was a strange sight, themobile home still tipped over, one corner crumpled into the ground.I worked my way down the line as the sun set behind the trees. Iwasn't having much luck, just a few doors slammed in my face andone dog who took a nice sample of fabric out of my pant leg. I'dbeen giving the private investigator thing a try for about six months.It wasn't working out too well.
Finally, I found one woman who would admit to seeing whathappened. After she described what she had seen, she asked meif there might be a few bucks in it for her. I told her she wouldhave to take up that matter with Mr. Uttley. I left her his card."Lane Uttley, Attorney at Law, specializing in personal injury,workers' compensation, automobile accidents, slip and fall, medicalmalpractice, defective products, alcohol-related accidents,criminal defense." With his address in the Soo and his phone number.She squinted at the tiny letters, all those words on one littlebusiness card. "I'11 call him first thing in the morning," she said. Ididn't feel like driving all the way back to Lane's office to drop offmy report, so she'd probably call him before he even knew whoshe was. Which would confuse the hell out of him, but I was coldand tired, much in need of a drink, and already late for my pokergame.
The Glasgow Inn is supposed to have a touch of Scotland to it.So instead of sitting on a stool and staring at your own face in themirror behind the bar, you sit in an overstuffed chair in front of thefireplace. If that's the way it works in Scotland, I'd like to movethere after I retire. For now, I'll take the Glasgow Inn. It was like asecond home to me.
When I walked into the place, the guys were at the table and alreadyinto the game, like I figured. Jackie, the owner of the place,was in his usual chair with his feet by the fire. He nodded at me andthen at the bar. There stood Leon Prudell, one hand on the bar, theother wrapped around a shotglass. From the looks of him, it was nothis first.
"Well, well," he said. "If it isn't Mr. Alex McNight." Prudell wasa big man, two-fifty at least. But he carried most of it around hismiddle. His hair was bright red and was always sticking out insome direction. One look at the guy, with the plaid flannel shirtand the hundred-dollar hunting boots, you knew he had lived in theUpper Peninsula all his life.
The five men at the poker table stopped in midhand to watch us.
"Mr. McNight, Private Eye," he said. "Mr. Bigshot, himself, ay?"With that distinctive "yooper" twang, that little rise in his voice thatmade him sound almost Canadian.
There might have been a dozen other men in the place, besidesthe players at the table. The room fell silent as they all turned oneby one to look at us, like we were a couple of gunslingers ready todraw.
"What brings you all the way out to Paradise, Prudell?" I asked.
He looked at me for a long moment. A log on the fire gave a suddenpop like a gunshot. He drained the rest of his glass and then putit on the bar. "Why don't we discuss this outside?" he said.
"Prudell," I said. "It's cold outside. I've had a long day."
"I really think we need to discuss this matter outside, McKnight."
"Let me buy you a drink, okay?" I said. "Can I just buy you adrink and we can talk about it here?"
"Oh sure," he said. "You can buy me a drink. You can buy metwo drinks. You can get behind the bar and mix 'em yourself."
"For God's sake." This I did not need. Not tonight.
"That's the least you can do for a man after you take his jobaway."
"Prudell, come on."
"Here," he said. He stuffed one of his big paws into his pocketsand pulled out his car keys. "You forgot to take these, too."
"Prudell ..."
I didn't expect the keys to come at me so quickly, and with suchdeadly aim. They caught me right above the left eye before I couldeven flinch.
All five men rose at once from their table. "No need, boys," Isaid. "Have a seat." I bent over to pick up the keys, feeling a trickleof blood in the corner of my eye. "Prudell, I didn't know you hadsuch a good arm. We could have used you back when I was playingball in Columbus." I tossed his keys back to him. "Of course, I gotto wear a mask then." I wiped at the blood with the back of myhand.
"Outside," he said.
"After you," I said.
We went out into the parking lot and stood facing each other inthe cheap light. We were alone. The pine trees swayed all around usas the wind picked up. The air was heavy with moisture off thelake. He took a couple swings at me without connecting.
"Prudell, aren't we a little too old for this?"
"Shut up and fight," he said. He swung at me with everything hehad. The man didn't know how to fight, but he could still hurt meif I wasn't careful. And unfortunately, he probably wasn't quite asdrunk as I hoped he was.
"Prudell, you aren't even coming close," I said. "Maybe youshould stick to throwing your keys." Get him mad, I thought. Don'tlet him settle down and start finding his range.
"I've got a wife and two kids, you know." He kept throwing bigroundhouse punches with his right hand. "My wife isn't going to gether new car now. And my kids won't be going to Disney World likeI promised them."
I ducked a right, then another right, then another. Let's see aleft, I thought. I want a nice lazy drunken left hand, Prudell.
"I had a guy working for me, helping me out when I was on ajob," he said. "I swear to God, McKnight, that was the only thingkeeping him together. If something happens to him now, it's all onyour head."
He tried a couple more right-hand haymakers before the idea ofa left-hand jab bubbled up through all the rage and whiskey in hisbrain. When it came, it was as long and slow as a mudslide. Istepped into him and threw a right hook to the point of his chin,turning the punch slightly downward at the end, just like my oldthird base coach had taught me. Prudell went down hard and stayeddown.
I stood there watching him while I rubbed my right shoulder."Get up, Prudell," I said. "I didn't hit you that hard."
I was just about to get worried when he finally pulled himself upfrom the gravel. "McKnight, I will get you," he said. "I promiseyou that right now."
"I'm here most Saturday nights," I said. "Hell, most nights period.You know where to find me."
"Count on it," he said. He stumbled around the parking lot fora full minute until he remembered what his car looked like. In thedistance I could hear the waves dying on the rocks.
I went back into the bar. The men looked at me, then at the door.They reached their own conclusions and went on with the pokerhand. It was the usual crew, the kind of guys you didn't even haveto say hello to, even if you hadn't seen them in a week. You just satdown and looked at your cards. I held a napkin over my eye to stopthe bleeding.
"That clown must have stood there for two hours waiting foryou," Jackie said. "What was his beef?"
"Thinks I took his job," I said. "He used to do some work forUttley."
"A private investigator? Him?"
"He likes to think so."
"I wouldn't pay him two cents to find his own dick."
"Why would you pay a man to find his own dick?" a man namedRudy asked.
"I wouldn't," Jackie said. "It's just an expression."
"It's not an expression," Rudy said. "If it was an expression, Iwould have heard it before."
"It's an expression," Jackie said. "Tell him it's an expression,Alex."
"Just deal the cards," I said.
I played some poker and had a few slow beers. Jackie went overthe bridge every week to get good beer from Canada, just one morereason to love the place. I forgot all about trailer parks and pissed-offex-private eyes for a while. I figured that was enough drama forone night. I figured I was allowed to relax a little bit and maybeeven start to feel human again.
But the night had other plans for me. Because that's when EdwinFulton had to come into the place. Excuse me, Edwin J. Fultonthe third. And his wife, Sylvia. They just had to pick this night todrop by.
They had obviously just been to some sort of soiree. God knowswhere you'd even find a soiree in the whole Upper Peninsula, butleave it to Edwin. He was decked out in his best gray suit, a charcoalovercoat, and a red scarf wrapped around his collar just right. Thesuit was obviously tailored to make him look taller, but it could onlydo so much. He was still a good six inches shorter than his wife.
Sylvia was wearing a full-length fur coat. Fox, I would haveguessed. It must have taken about twenty of them to make thatcoat. She had her dark hair pinned up, and when she took off hercoat, we all got to see a little black number that showed off her legsand her perfect shoulders. Goddamn it, that woman had shoulders.And even on a cold night she had to go and wear something likethat. She knew that every man in the place was looking at her, butI had a sick feeling that she wouldn't have taken her coat off at allif I hadn't been there. She slipped me a quick look that hurt memore than Prudell's keys.
Edwin gave me a little wave while he ordered up a couple quickdrinks. He had that look on his face, that deadpan look he alwayswore when he was out in public with his wife.
"Tell me something," Jackie said to nobody in particular. "Howdoes a woman like that end up with a horse's ass like Edwin Fulton?"
"I think it has something to do with having a lot of money,"Rudy said.
"You mean if I had a million dollars she'd be sitting over here onmy lap instead?"
"I don't know about that," Rudy said. "Guy as ugly as you, you'dprobably need five million."
They didn't stay long. One drink and they were gone, just aquick stop to dazzle the locals and then be on their way. She gaveme one more glance as Edwin helped her into her coat. Whateverpoint she had hoped to make had apparently been made.
I kept thinking about her while I played poker. It didn't help meconcentrate on the cards and it didn't help my mood any, either.Outside the wind really started to pick up. We could hear it rattlingthe windows.
"November winds are here early," Jackie said.
"It's after midnight," Rudy said. "It's November first. They'reright on time."
"I stand corrected."
About an hour later, Edwin came back into the place. He wasalone this time. He stood at the bar for a while, wearing his hangdogexpression this time, hoping I'd notice him. I was glad he didn'ttry to come over to our table. He had actually played with us oncebefore, and had lost his money as fast as a man can lose money playinglow-stakes poker. But it's just no fun taking money from a guywhen you know it doesn't mean anything to him. That and the wayhe kept yammering on like he was suddenly one of the boys. Henever got asked to play again.
On most nights, I would have at least gone over to him for aminute to see how he was doing. I don't know if I just felt sorry forthe guy, or if I felt guilty because of the business with Sylvia. Ormaybe I really liked the guy. Maybe I considered him my friend despiteall the obvious reasons not to. But for some reason I just didn'tfeel up to it on this night. I let him stand there by the bar until hefinally gave up and left.
I felt bad as soon as the door shut behind him. "I'm gonna call ita night, guys," I said. I was hoping I could catch him in the parkinglot, but when I got outside he was already gone.
On the ride home, there's a stretch on the main road where thetrees open up and you get a great look at the lake. There wasn'tmuch moonlight coming through the clouds, but there was enoughto see that the waves were getting bigger, maybe four or five feet. Icould feel the truck rocking in the wind as I drove. Somewhere outthere, a good thousand feet under the waves, there were twenty-ninemen still sleeping, twenty years after the Edmund Fitzgeraldwent down. I bet that night felt just like this one.
The wind followed me all the way home, and even when I wasinside the cabin I could feel it coming through the cracks. I turnedoff every light and crawled under my thickest comforter. In thetotal darkness I could hear the night whispering to me.
I slept. I don't know how long. Then a noise. The phone.
It rang a few times before I got to it. When I picked it up, a voicesaid, "Alex."
"Hello?"
"Alex, it's me, Edwin."
"Edwin? God, what time is it?"
"I don't know," he said. "I think it's about two in the morning."
"Two in the ... for God's sake, Edwin, what is it?"
"Um, I've got a little problem here, Alex."
"What kind of problem?"
"Alex, I know it's real late, but is there any chance of you comingout here?"
"Where? Your house?"
"No. I'm in the Soo."
"What? I just saw you a couple hours ago at the bar."
"Yeah, I know. I was on my way out here."
"Edwin, what the hell's going on?"
I stood there shivering for a long moment, listening to the windoutside and to a distant hum on the phone line. "Alex, please," hefinally said. His voice started to break. "Please come out here. Ithink he's dead."
"Who's dead? What are you talking about?"
"I really think he's dead, Alex. I mean, the blood ..."
"Edwin, where are you?"
"The blood, Alex." I could barely hear him. "I've never seen somuch blood."
Continues...
Excerpted from A Cold Day in Paradiseby Steve Hamilton Copyright © 2000 by Steve Hamilton. Excerpted by permission.
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