The Hunter

Birds dive in the blue sky behind his head. The mountains are a slip of shadow in the corner of Lena’s eye.

“It all hangs together beautiful,” Mart says. “There’s just one wee bitta mud in the waters: that story about a buncha local lads doing something nefarious on the mountain that night. As long as Nealon’s got that to contend with, ’tis hard for him to settle comfortably on Johnny, or anyhow Johnny all on his ownio. And I’d like Detective Nealon to be comfortable.”

He arranges his hat back on his head. “There was no one on the mountain that night,” he says. “Only Rushborough and Johnny. Whoever’s been saying different needs to go back to Detective Nealon and correct the record. I’m not saying they musta seen Johnny leaving the house late that night, not for definite, but ’twould be helpful.”

At his feet, Kojak flops over onto the other side and sighs gustily. Mart bends, painfully, to rub his neck.

“If that loada flimflam did happen to come from young Theresa,” he says, “nobody’d blame her for making up a story to shield her daddy. Sure, it’d be only natural. Not even the detective himself could hold that against her. As long as she’s got the sense to know when ’tis time to come clean.”

He straightens up and pats his pockets, making sure everything is in its proper place. “If you think of it,” he says, “ ’tis no more than justice. Regardless of who kilt Rushborough, all this was Johnny Reddy’s doing.”

Lena agrees with him on this. Mart sees it in her face, and that she refuses to admit it. He grins, enjoying that.

“Johnny won’t go down easy,” she says. “If he gets arrested, he’ll tell the detective about the gold. Try and drop all of ye in the shite.”

“I’ll handle Johnny,” Mart says. “Don’t you worry your head about him.” He snaps his fingers for Kojak and smiles at her. “You just get your house in order, Missus Hooper. I’ve faith in you. No better woman.”

—

One of the deep pleasures woven through Lena’s life is walking around Ardnakelty. She has a car, but she walks everywhere she can, and counts it among the main compensations of her decision to stay. Lena doesn’t consider herself an expert on much, but she takes an expert’s fine-tuned satisfaction in the fact that here she could distinguish March from April blindfolded, by the quality of the damp earth in its scent, or tell how the last few seasons have unfolded by watching the movement of sheep in their fields. No other place, however familiar, could provide her with a map that’s built into her bones as well as her senses.

Today she drives up the mountain. She doesn’t like doing it—not only because of losing the walk, but because right now she would rather be out on the mountainside, where she could catch its every nuance. The car insulates her; she could miss something. But she’s hoping that, after she’s talked to Trey, they’ll need the car. She’s left the dogs behind.

Johnny answers the door. For the first time since he came back to Ardnakelty, he has the face he’s earned: old, pinched and stubbled, with a faint whiskey blur in his eyes. Even his vanity has gone. He barely seems to register Lena’s second of shock.

“God almighty,” he says, with a smile like a tic, “ ’tis Lena Dunne. What brings you up here, at all? Have you news for me?”

Lena watches his mind zip between hope and wariness. “No news,” she says. “I’m looking for a word with Theresa, if she’s about.”

“With Theresa? What would you want with Theresa, now?”

Lena says, “This and that.”

“She’s inside,” Sheila says, in the dark hallway behind Johnny. “I’ll get her for you now.” She disappears again.

“Thanks,” Lena calls after her. She says to Johnny, “Sorry for your loss.”

“What…?” It takes him a squinting moment to work out what she’s on about. “Ah, God, right. Himself. Ah, no, I’m grand—he’ll be missed, o’ course he will, but sure, we weren’t close or anything. I hardly knew him, only from down the pub. I’m grand, so I am.”

Lena doesn’t bother answering him. Johnny tries to lounge in the doorway, but his muscles are too tense for that; he just ends up looking like there’s something wrong with him. “So,” he says. “What’s the story from down in the valley-o?”

“You oughta come down and see for yourself, one of these days,” Lena says. “Take a bitta pride in your work.”

“Ah, here, get away outa that,” Johnny protests. “This has nothing to do with me. I done nothing on Rushborough. I’m just minding me own business up here, not saying a word to anyone, not saying a word to Nealon and his boyos. Everyone knows that. Amn’t I right?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Lena says. “Go ask them yourself.” She doesn’t blame him for getting panicky. Johnny’s between a rock and a couple of hard places. If Nealon believes Trey’s story, then the townland is going to come after Johnny; if Nealon doubts her, then Johnny’s going to be top of his list. If Johnny runs, Nealon will hunt him down. For once in his life, Johnny has no easy out. She feels no sympathy for him.