Known Dead by Donald Harstad Page B

’’
    ‘‘What about?’’
    ‘‘About what will happen if you don’t,’’ said Hester.
    While she and ‘‘old Howler’’ had been chatting, a youngish trooper had crept up onto the porch area and was standing pressed to the wall, about two feet from the screen door. The door opened more, and Howler stuck his head out. I had the impression of gray hair, in a ponytail, no shirt, thin . . .
    The trooper’s hand shot out, grabbed the ponytail, and in one very smooth move Howler was on the porch floor, facedown with one arm behind his back, and the right knee of the trooper firmly against his spine.
    ‘‘Ow, man, that hurts!’’ The call of the wild.
    Hester and I were on the porch in a hurry. We stood looking down at Howler for a second. I looked at the trooper. ‘‘You do good work.’’
    ‘‘Hey, nothing to it.’’
    ‘‘You fuckers,’’ asked Howler, ‘‘gonna stand there and fuckin’ chat while this fucker’s tearing off my fuckin’ arm?’’
    ‘‘Watch your language,’’ I said, ‘‘there’s a lady present.’’
    Howler looked up, saw Hester, and said, ‘‘Oh. My apologies, ma’am.’’
    I had to turn around and face the yard. He was funny enough, but Hester just hated ‘‘ma’am.’’
    ‘‘Let him up,’’ said Hester.
    The trooper, who was probably all of twenty-three or twenty-four, stood Howler up, smartly, and asked Hester, ‘‘Do you want him cuffed, ma’am?’’
    ‘‘No, thank you.’’
    I turned around. ‘‘Do you want to talk to him now, ma’am?’’
    Mistake. ‘‘No,’’ said Hester evenly. ‘‘I was thinking of hauling him in as a material witness.’’
    ‘‘Can’t,’’ I said. ‘‘Been done already today. Only allowed one a day.’’
    ‘‘What’s goin’ on?’’ asked Howler. Reasonably.
    ‘‘Well,’’ said Hester, ‘‘we have to talk to you about a couple of things.’’ She eyeballed him pretty well, especially his many tattoos. ‘‘You’re a felon, right?’’
    ‘‘I did my time, ma’am. I got out two years ago. I’m clean.’’
    ‘‘Except for a couple of things,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Like your assault rifle, for instance.’’
    Silence.
    ‘‘If you give it to us now,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I’ll tell the court you were cooperative.’’
    He thought for a minute. ‘‘I don’t want you searchin’ the house.’’
    ‘‘If we get the gun, we won’t have to.’’
    He thought for another few seconds. ‘‘Okay.’’
    ‘‘We’ll come in with you,’’ said Hester.
    ‘‘And you just tell us where to look for it,’’ I said. ‘‘Let us get it.’’
    ‘‘Sure, man,’’ said Howler. ‘‘You think I’m nuts?’’ He grinned. ‘‘Just reach around the door, it’s right there.’’
    I pulled my last two surgical gloves from my pants pocket, donned them, and reached my hand around the doorframe. I put my hand on a piece of cold metal. I pulled out an old Russian Army rifle, semiauto. Tokarev. 1940. Had a box magazine under the stock, for ten rounds. I’d seen one once before, in a museum. World War II vintage. But 7.62 mm, all right. How handy.
    I pulled back the bolt, and a round popped out, striking the edge of the porch and spinning onto the floor. With the bolt still back, I dropped the magazine, which hit the floor with a solid thunk. The bolt stayed open. I tried to smell the chamber, but with my sinuses, it was hopeless. But old Howler didn’t know that.
    ‘‘When did you last fire this?’’
    ‘‘Early this morning.’’
    ‘‘Where.’’
    ‘‘In the woods.’’
    I looked at him. ‘‘At what?’’ I bent over, and retrieved the round and the magazine, which contained several more.
    ‘‘A deer.’’
    ‘‘Howler,’’ I said, straightening up slowly, ‘‘that’s illegal. You can’t hunt deer in Iowa with a rifle. You know that.’’
    He just looked at me.
    ‘‘Howler,’’ said Hester, ‘‘we’re going to have to ask you to come to the