No Man's Dog by Jon A. Jackson Page A

improved.”
    â€œWhat happened to her?”
    Mulheisen glanced around. It seemed inappropriate to be having this kind of conversation out here in the woods, in this odd situation. Perhaps it didn’t seem odd to country people, althoughhe didn’t have the impression that Luck was any kind of bucolic character. “She got blown up,” he said.
    â€œBlown up? Your mother was blown up? What the—? You mean she was in an explosion? Was she hurt bad?”
    â€œPretty bad,” Mulheisen said. “She’s pretty much recovered now, after six months. But she was dazed and confused . . . it was more like a walking coma. She didn’t say anything for quite a while.”
    â€œBut now she’s all right?”
    â€œPretty much,” Mulheisen said. “She doesn’t remember what happened, but she appears to be okay physically.”
    â€œWell that’s good,” Luck said. “I’m glad to hear it. And you’re Mulheisen? Where did this happen?”
    â€œThe explosion? It was in a suburb, outside of Detroit, a little town called Wards Cove.”
    â€œI heard about that. It was a city hall, or something?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Mulheisen said, nodding. Luck seemed genuinely interested, looking at him more keenly.
    â€œMulheisen,” Luck said, appearing to savor the name. “That’s German. I’m from German stock myself.”
    â€œYou are? Luck—,” Mulheisen started to say.
    Luck interrupted him. “It doesn’t sound German. It was originally Luckenbach— loukenbock, they pronounce it in the old country. The brook at Lucken. That’s where my people are from.”
    â€œIs that so?” Mulheisen said. “I’ve heard of Luckenwalde. In fact, I was there once. It’s near Berlin.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Luck said. “I’ve never been to Germany myself. What’s it like?”
    â€œLuckenwalde? Oh, I don’t recall much about it. It’s kind of flat country, I think.” Mulheisen was just guessing. His memory of Luckenwalde was dim. Was it the village with the ancient stone church? He wasn’t sure. Was there a brook? He seemed to recall an old stone bridge, but he wasn’t positive and didn’t mention it to Luck.
    Mulheisen glanced about him. Evening was upon them, the darkness seemingly welling up out of the woods. He could no longer see the two men in the other truck, who in any case had not gotten out or made any sign of impatience.
    â€œAnd you,” Luck said, “you’re Ironmill. Am I right?”
    â€œHunh? Oh, yeah. Mulheisen. I guess that’s what it means.”
    â€œTwo Germans meet in a dark woods,” Luck said. “One German says, ‘Wie gehts.’ What does the other say?”
    Mulheisen struggled to recall his nato-Deutsche, from thirty years back. “Uh, I guess he says, ‘Wohin das biergarten?’”
    Luck laughed. “I don’t have any beer, and I’m not about to drive into Queen to get some, but let me speak to these boys and we can go on back to the house. You can tell me about your exploded mother. Oh, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”
    â€œNot at all,” Mulheisen said. He stepped away so that Luck could dismount from the cab. The man turned out to be about Mulheisen’s height, six feet or so. He was a trim fellow, from what Mulheisen could see, wearing a loose, heavy duck barn coat, twill trousers, and heavy-soled shoes, the brim of his canvas hat rakishly tilted. He had an athletic grace, an easy movement. The coat pocket was bulging, Mulheisen noted, and caused the coat to swing heavily. Luck was armed.
    â€œI don’t like to ask this, Mul,” Luck said, when they stood between the two vehicles, “but are you packing?”
    Mulheisen shook his head. “Packing? A gun? Nah, I had to turn it in when I left the force.” He held his