have hung.
I was just pulling the target free of a rake and a hoe when a raspy female voice behind me said, “Probably staple you to that, I was to let loose both barrels.”
Her cadence was a lot like the sheriff’s, but older. Without turning, I said, “I’ll put the target down.”
“Might tell me what you’re doing here, too.”
From a ways off, I heard Willis call out. “Ma! Ma, now don’t you shoot that man. He’s a detective from down to Boston.”
“Boston? The hell’s he doing here?”
Willis sounded closer. “He might like to talk with you about that.”
4
“H OW’RE YOU DOING back there?”
“Fine, Ms. Judson.”
“Christ come to earth, man. Don’t be calling me ‘Miz’ anything. ‘Ma’ does just fine for folks up here.”
I was following Ma Judson along the winding, overgrown path from the edge of the clearing for the Shea house southward toward her place. Sheriff Willis had a call she had to cover, but before leaving in the Blazer she said Ma Judson or Dag Gates could run me back to the inn when I was finished talking with them.
Judson herself was a study in contrasts. A round, rosy face with gray, milky eyes, the kind that a cookie company would cast in the role of grandmother. However, the scent trailing behind her was less sugar and more garlic, and her hat was a man’s snap-brim in green felt, what looked like a nip taken out of the back of the brim. The little I could see of her hair was white, thin, and short. She wore an oxford shirt with a tattered collar under a buckskin jacket that never saw the inside of a boutique. Her pants were baggy, olive drab corduroys, the wale wide. I was pretty sure her shoes were L. L. Bean duck-boots, the corduroys bloused into them like an airborne trooper would his or her fatigues. The contrast was capped by the over-and-under shotgun she carried, breech broken as a foolproof safety.
As we walked, the sound of the barking was getting louder.
Judson said, “You’re the cause of that, you see.”
“Of what?”
“The dogs. A-baying and a-howling some fierce for them. Don’t care for the idea of somebody sneaking up on me.”
Over the sound of the dogs another noise came from the lake itself. This was more the long and haunting cry of a creature cutting its heart out.
“What the hell is that?”
“Loon. We’re blessed with seventeen adults, we are, and four chicks made it through the end of last summer. We’ll be doing a formal count this July, but after a while, you get so you can pick them out. That was ‘Diver.’ ”
Another one of the cries, this one sounding briefer than the first.
“You see?”
“See what?”
“That second cry. That was ‘Two Hoots,’ I call her. She stops after only two—they call them ‘yodels’ or ‘tremolos.’ ”
Through a gap in the trees I spotted a huge bird hanging low in the water. It looked like a cross between a Canadian goose and a cormorant. “That a loon?”
Judson came back to me, craned her neck. “It is.”
“Which one?”
“Can’t tell from here. Have to wait till it calls.”
We waited. It didn’t.
I felt a trickle of sweat working its way down my cheek. “Maybe next time.”
“Presumptuous.” She looked up at me, then smiled. “I see one of them got you.”
“One what?”
Judson reached an index finger toward my face and touched the sweat. Her finger came away bloody. “Black fly. Mostly gone now, but there are still a few on the wing.”
I put my hand to my face and felt a lump just under my eye.
“Don’t be itching that, now. Welt’ll be bad enough without it.”
“Why don’t they bother you?”
“The garlic. Eat it for six weeks before they hatch, they don’t know you’re around. Other folks do, though, I expect.”
She turned and continued down the trail.
After another fifty yards of hiking, we reached a clearing more subtle than the one around the Shea house. In the clearing stood a rustic cabin made of hewn logs, weathered to the
I was just pulling the target free of a rake and a hoe when a raspy female voice behind me said, “Probably staple you to that, I was to let loose both barrels.”
Her cadence was a lot like the sheriff’s, but older. Without turning, I said, “I’ll put the target down.”
“Might tell me what you’re doing here, too.”
From a ways off, I heard Willis call out. “Ma! Ma, now don’t you shoot that man. He’s a detective from down to Boston.”
“Boston? The hell’s he doing here?”
Willis sounded closer. “He might like to talk with you about that.”
4
“H OW’RE YOU DOING back there?”
“Fine, Ms. Judson.”
“Christ come to earth, man. Don’t be calling me ‘Miz’ anything. ‘Ma’ does just fine for folks up here.”
I was following Ma Judson along the winding, overgrown path from the edge of the clearing for the Shea house southward toward her place. Sheriff Willis had a call she had to cover, but before leaving in the Blazer she said Ma Judson or Dag Gates could run me back to the inn when I was finished talking with them.
Judson herself was a study in contrasts. A round, rosy face with gray, milky eyes, the kind that a cookie company would cast in the role of grandmother. However, the scent trailing behind her was less sugar and more garlic, and her hat was a man’s snap-brim in green felt, what looked like a nip taken out of the back of the brim. The little I could see of her hair was white, thin, and short. She wore an oxford shirt with a tattered collar under a buckskin jacket that never saw the inside of a boutique. Her pants were baggy, olive drab corduroys, the wale wide. I was pretty sure her shoes were L. L. Bean duck-boots, the corduroys bloused into them like an airborne trooper would his or her fatigues. The contrast was capped by the over-and-under shotgun she carried, breech broken as a foolproof safety.
As we walked, the sound of the barking was getting louder.
Judson said, “You’re the cause of that, you see.”
“Of what?”
“The dogs. A-baying and a-howling some fierce for them. Don’t care for the idea of somebody sneaking up on me.”
Over the sound of the dogs another noise came from the lake itself. This was more the long and haunting cry of a creature cutting its heart out.
“What the hell is that?”
“Loon. We’re blessed with seventeen adults, we are, and four chicks made it through the end of last summer. We’ll be doing a formal count this July, but after a while, you get so you can pick them out. That was ‘Diver.’ ”
Another one of the cries, this one sounding briefer than the first.
“You see?”
“See what?”
“That second cry. That was ‘Two Hoots,’ I call her. She stops after only two—they call them ‘yodels’ or ‘tremolos.’ ”
Through a gap in the trees I spotted a huge bird hanging low in the water. It looked like a cross between a Canadian goose and a cormorant. “That a loon?”
Judson came back to me, craned her neck. “It is.”
“Which one?”
“Can’t tell from here. Have to wait till it calls.”
We waited. It didn’t.
I felt a trickle of sweat working its way down my cheek. “Maybe next time.”
“Presumptuous.” She looked up at me, then smiled. “I see one of them got you.”
“One what?”
Judson reached an index finger toward my face and touched the sweat. Her finger came away bloody. “Black fly. Mostly gone now, but there are still a few on the wing.”
I put my hand to my face and felt a lump just under my eye.
“Don’t be itching that, now. Welt’ll be bad enough without it.”
“Why don’t they bother you?”
“The garlic. Eat it for six weeks before they hatch, they don’t know you’re around. Other folks do, though, I expect.”
She turned and continued down the trail.
After another fifty yards of hiking, we reached a clearing more subtle than the one around the Shea house. In the clearing stood a rustic cabin made of hewn logs, weathered to the
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