The hunting wind am-3 Page 27

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t come in yet. He must have heard us talking.”

  “Maybe he’s asleep. Do you think we’d wake him if we sneaked out of here?”

  “I think he’d wake up, yes.”

  “We could tie these sheets together,” he said. “And go out the window.”

  “I hope you’re not serious.”

  “I’m never serious,” he said. He rubbed the bandages around his neck for a moment. “Is she safe?” he finally said. “Tell me that much.”

  “She’s safe,” I said. “Harwood’s dead.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  He thought about it. He didn’t ask me anything more.

  “You want me to get the doctor now?” I said.

  “Yes. I need some water.”

  “You should call your family.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You know. You talked to them.”

  “Call your son,” I said. “Terry, the catcher. He’ll want to know.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

  There wasn’t much else to say. When I finally said good-bye to him, I wasn’t sure how much I should hate him. In a way, he was exactly the same person I had known back in 1971. Now, almost thirty years later, after all the trouble he had caused me, I still couldn’t make myself hate Randy Wilkins. No matter how hard I tried.

  And I still didn’t know if I believed him.

  I drove home, four and a half hours straight north in the middle of the night. The sun was just coming up as I crossed over the Mackinac Bridge. There was still snow on the ground in the Upper Peninsula. As always, it felt like a different world. Maybe that’s why I came up here in the first place. And why I’ve stayed so long.

  I went to my cabin and slept a few hours. When I got up, I found my old catcher’s mitt and wrapped it up in a cardboard box. I addressed it to Terry Wilkins, care of the UC-Santa Barbara Athletic Department. I got myself cleaned up and took the box to the post office.

  And then, of course, I went to the Glasgow Inn for lunch. Where else was I going to go? Jackie was there waiting for me with a cold Canadian. He asked me about everything that had happened. I spent the rest of the afternoon telling him about it.

  Around dinnertime, a wheelchair came through the front door. For one sickening second, I thought it was Harwood’s ghost come to get me. It was Leon, both of his ankles still in casts, his wife pushing the wheelchair.

  We all had dinner together, and I got to tell the whole story again, this time for Leon. After dinner, I told Jackie to mix me up a vodka and root beer. “One slinky, coming up,” he said. It was truly awful.

  We drank to the past. To money and to lies. To youth. To crazy left-handed pitchers.

  We drank until the sun went down again on another day, keeping the fireplace fed and staying close to its warmth. Even when it’s springtime in the rest of the world, the nights are still cold in Paradise.

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