Shooting At Loons Part 12

No ring on his finger and no study dates that winter.

Oh what the h.e.l.l, I thought. I left Proust lying on the table and followed Lev out of the library that evening and when we were almost to the bottom step, I let myself fall against him so that we both went down in a tangle of books and scarves and laughing apology.

I must have slipped on the ice, I told him, and no, nothing seemed broken, but it wouldn't be, would it, not with all the heavy coats and gloves y'all wear up here? He heard my accent (how could he not, the way I was laying it on?) and asked how long I'd been in New York and all I could think was that I'd never seen eyes so dark and piercing and the smell of his aftershave-I could almost smell it now, could almost- I stopped rocking abruptly.

It wasn't Lev's aftershave I smelled, but a fragrance sweetish and equally well known. I stood up, sniffing now, quartering the wind like one of my daddy's hounds.

Nothing.

Yet, seated in the rocking chair, I smelled it again, an elusively familiar aroma.

Insect repellent?

I walked over to the near end of the porch. In the dim light, did the gra.s.s there looked scuffed? If I hadn't been looking straight down at it-a dark shape that I'd thought was a rock or a piece of sc.r.a.p wood-I might not have noticed when it drew back very, very slowly and disappeared under the edge of the porch.

A booted foot.

I sat back down in the rocker and thought about that foot a minute and then went out to the trunk of my car and got the loaded .38 Daddy gave me a few years back when I made it clear I wasn't going to quit driving alone at night or stop looking for witnesses in rough places.

Back up on the porch, I rocked for another couple of minutes, then slid the safety off and said in a low conversational tone, "I don't know why you're under my porch, but if you don't come out now, I'm going to start shooting right through these planks."

I heard a m.u.f.fled "Oh s.h.i.+t!" and sc.r.a.ping sounds, then a man hauled himself out feet first. As he reached for his pocket, I said, "Keep your hands in the air, mister!" and tugged at the front door.

"No! No lights, okay?" His urgent voice was barely a whisper. "Please, lady."

He was a tall and lanky silhouette against the faint light coming from the store a quarter-mile away. "If you'd just let me-"

"Officer..." I had to fumble for his name. "Chapin, is it?"

It was the same game warden who'd been in court that afternoon. He peered at me closely.

"Oh s.h.i.+t!" he swore again. "Judge? Excuse me asking, ma'am, but what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"I live here," I answered. "At least, I'm staying here this week. More to the point, what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

He stepped up onto the porch and pressed himself against the wall where the shadows were deepest. "Trying to save a few loons and swans. Mind pointing that thing somewhere else?"

"Oh. Sorry." I put the safety back on and laid the gun on the floor beside my chair.

"We got a tip that somebody down on this part of the island's been getting away with shooting loons for a few years now. Just stands on his porch and bangs away. If he bags one, it's just a few steps out and back in again before we can get a fix on where the gunshot came from. I decided that this year, by d.a.m.n, I was gonna bag him."

"You're talking about Mahlon Davis, aren't you?"

"Well, that's the way our suspicions have been running. Don't suppose you've seen him at it?"

"No-o, but-"

"But what, ma'am?"

"I was just remembering that both yesterday and today, I did hear gunshots when I first woke up. Didn't think anything about it, though."

"Not many people do, down here," he said bitterly. "It's the sound of springtime-spring peepers, migrating loons, shotgun blasts."

"Were you really going to spend the night under this porch?"

"I didn't know anybody was staying here, although I should have realized, the way your phone's been going crazy the last hour. I thought it belonged to somebody upstate that only comes down weekends. Stalking some of these boogers is like stalking wild turkeys. Except they're smarter and edgier than any turkey and they can spot a game warden a mile off. Only chance you have is to get in a place they can't see you and then grab 'em while the bird's still warm in their hands."

"Spoken like a man who enjoys his job," I laughed.

"We might not go in it for the sport," he said, "but most of us do like to hunt. And this surely is a hunt."

"Yeah, I used to hear tell of a revenuer like that. He'd lay out in the woods for a week at the time to catch somebody."

"It's not too bad. I've got a sleeping bag under there."

"Where's your car?"

"Parked up at the Sh.e.l.l Point ranger station. One of my buddies dropped me off up the road about ten minutes before you pulled in. Only thing I could think to do was dive under there before you saw me. I thought you'd go on to bed and I could just sneak out. How'd you spot me?"

"You were a little too liberal with your Off," I told him.

All this time, we'd been speaking in low tones. The wind was stiffening now and I was getting cold and suddenly quite tired.

I stood and pulled the windbreaker close around me. "Well, have fun. If I don't get to bed I won't be able to keep my eyes open in court tomorrow."

"Say, Judge?" Chapin's voice was diffident, but I knew that wheedling tone. G.o.d knows I'd heard it often enough from my brothers and nephews.

"No," I said.

"But we're both officers of the court, on the same side, aren't we?"

"Up to a point," I said. "If they were shooting loons for the h.e.l.l of it, I'd say sure you could spend the night inside on the couch, but these people eat what they shoot and-"

"Most robbers spend what they steal," he said reasonably.

I sighed. "They're going to hate me."

"They won't even know it was you," he promised. "I'll slip out the back door. They won't know where I came from."

"You better not snore and I get first dibs on the bathroom," I told him.

He pulled his sleeping bag out from under the porch, shook it good, and we went inside, still not turning on any lights.

8.

Our life is like a stormy sea

Swept by the gales of sin and grief,

While on the windward and the lee

Hang heavy clouds of unbelief;

But o'er the deep a call we hear,

Like harbor bell's inviting voice;

It tells the lost that hope is near,

And bids the trembling soul rejoice.

"This way, this way, O heart oppress'd,

So long by storm and tempest driv'n;

This way, this way, lo, here is rest,"

Rings out the Harbor Bell of heaven.

-John H. Yates When I awoke the next morning, it wasn't the sound of shotguns blasting across the water that floated through my window, but those very loud bantam gamec.o.c.ks that Mickey Mantle keeps caged among the bushes at the edge of Mahlon's lot.

I'm sure he fights them somewhere on the island, but it was no concern of my mine. The clock said it was only six-ten, so I pulled the quilt over my head and tried to ignore their strident crows.

Less easy to ignore an hour later was the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee that worked its way under my closed door and down under the quilt till I was roused to pull a sweats.h.i.+rt over my gown and go follow it out to the kitchen. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a phantom aroma for by the time I got there, the pot was empty, a cup was draining in the dish rack on the sink, and there was a note on the table: 6:45.

Thanks for the loan of your couch. All quiet this a.m., so I'll try to sneak out without ruining your reputation.

Kidd Chapin There were enough trees and bushes between the back door and the mobile home fifty feet away. With Clarence and his son away all week, Chapin had a pretty good chance of succeeding unless someone happened to be looking right at the door the minute he opened it. Once outside and through the bushes, there was enough foot traffic back and forth between the road and the water, that no one would know if he were coming or going.

Reputation intact for one day more. My brothers would be pleased.

I showered while a fresh pot of coffee brewed, then slipped on jeans and sneakers and walked down to the water with that first hot cup cradled in my hands. The air was chilly and the wind was still off the water and stronger than last night, but the sun was burning off a light haze and it was going to be a beautiful day.

A door banged and I looked back to see young Guthrie standing there with books under his arm, his blond thatch brushed, dressed for school. He hesitated a moment, as if uncertain whether or not to acknowledge my presence. It was the first time I'd seen him since Sunday, but I greeted him casually and he joined me at the water's edge with some of his usual self-a.s.surance.

"You laying out today?" he asked.

I smiled. "Wish I could."

"Me, too. I hate school."

"Yeah, I did, too."