by Mark Dawson
He stretched out his legs, flexing his aching muscles, and then he found himself reaching across to her, brushing the hair away from her forehead. Ellie leaned up close against him, her legs tucked beneath her.
“You’re very mysterious,” she said. “I don’t really know anything about you, do I?”
He let his fingers fall down her face, touching the line of her cheekbone and then her jaw, saying, “There’s not much to tell.”
She said, “I don’t believe you,” touching his cheek with her hand, then kissed him, very gently, and said, laughing, “You taste of venison.”
He felt her fingers brush through his hair and reach around to the back of his head as she kissed him again, a little more firmly, and he had to tell himself to wait. Her lips tasted sweet and her small, slim body felt good against him. He put his arms around her, drawing her even closer, feeling her body in his hands, and she brushed his mouth with hers, saying, “What’s the big secret, John? What happened to you?”
He pulled away a little, reflexively, and she looked at him with concern.
She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Ellie.” He looked for the words, setting aside the reticence that was so practiced it was almost automatic, looking for something more real, more honest. “There are some things in my past that I don’t like to talk about.”
“You don’t—”
“I did some things, after the army, some work for my government. Ten years’ worth of it. I regret all of it, every day I spent working for them. It’s not something I can talk about, for a lot of different reasons. Shame is one of them.”
“John—” she began.
He cut her off gently. “It doesn’t matter.”
“—you have the saddest eyes.”
She took off her jacket and then her sweater, just a bra beneath, and then she took that off, too. Her body was lit by the flicker from the fire, oranges and yellows and reds, and he felt a catch in his throat. She had the most perfect skin, and as he reached across, it felt as smooth as silk. She reached for his jacket, pushing it off, and worked her hands beneath his sweater. They made love on the shore, in the firelight, both of them quiet because they weren’t alone, but neither of them able to stop. She remained silent when they were done, just the in and out of her breathing, until she said “John?” and he asked her what. But she didn’t say anything else, and Milton covered her with his jacket and lay down with her on the grass until she was asleep.
Chapter 17
DAWN BROKE at a little before five. Milton had carried Ellie to the empty tent and laid her gently inside. She hadn’t come to relieve him and, when he took a slow tour of the camp to reassure himself that all was well, he saw that she was still inside, breathing deeply and with a peaceful expression on her face. Mallory and her brother were sound asleep in the other tent. The four men were sleeping too, the sound of their snoring audible over the crackle of the fire. Milton had been the only one left awake. He could have woken Ellie, but he didn’t have the heart. He knew he would be fine to make the walk back into Truth without sleep and, besides, he would be able to catch up back at the hotel.
It had been a beautiful, peaceful night. He had heard the sound of trout splashing in the lake, a beaver’s tail slapping against the water, and owls hooting in the trees. The stars were spread out above him in a breathtakingly beautiful celestial display that had reminded him of his walk into Texas across the Mexican border, not so long ago. He sat back against the stump with his rifle laid out across his knees, taking it all in. He let his thoughts wander, thinking on all of the big skies he had slept beneath since he had fled from London, the corrupt members of Group Fifteen hard on his tail. That situation had been resolved now, but he had no desire to return. He wanted to see more skies like this one.
He thought of Ellie.
Milton went to the camp store, collected breakfast, and set about making it. They had bacon, tins of beans and a jar of coffee, so he built up the fire again and started to work. When he returned to the fire, she was standing there.
“Morning,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Morning.”
“I didn’t wake up.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“You should’ve woken me.”
“No,” he said. “It was quiet. And I thought you needed the sleep more than I did.”
There were spare baked potatoes from last night, and Milton turned those into hash browns.
“About last night,” she said.
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her, aware that he cared very much about what she was about to say.
Mallory and Arty emerged from their tent.
He felt his stomach turn over.
“It was good,” she said, rubbing her hand up and down his arm.
He dished up a plate of bacon and beans and gave it to Ellie. He smiled at her.
The Stantons approached before he could say anything. Arty was a big man, a good deal taller than him and significantly heavier, too. Mallory, never far from his side, was a wispy little thing in comparison. Yet, where he had an expression of peaceful simplicity in his large eyes, hers burned with sharp intelligence. She might have been triumphant to have been proved right, and Milton wouldn’t have begrudged her that, but it appeared that she was more concerned to make sure her brother was content.
“You hungry?” he asked her.
“Yes,” Mallory said. “Arty?”
“Very,” he said.
“Like beans and bacon?”
“Sure I do.”
“Hash browns?”
He nodded, hungrily.
“Sit down, then. I’ll bring it over.”
There came a banging against the side of the log cabin. It started with one man, and then the others joined in.
Arthur shrank back against Mallory.
“It’s all right,” Milton said. “They’re locked up tight.”
He dished out two generous portions and handed over the plates. They wandered down to the shore, sat down and started to eat.
Ellie brought her empty plate over to him. “You think we can get the men back into town?” she asked quietly when she was sure that the Stantons couldn’t hear.
Milton looked over at the cabin. The banging was louder and angrier now. He picked up his rifle. “We can.”
“You’ve got more confidence than I do.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
He splashed through the water to the cabin and unknotted the rope, letting the span fall loose. He stepped back and raised the rifle, aiming at the door. “Out you come,” he called. “One at a time.”
The four of them came out in single file, the morning sun bright in their eyes after ten hours in the gloom of the windowless cabin. Their hands were still trussed up, and any thoughts of escaping into the tree line would have been squashed by the sight of the rifle, aimed dead ahead, close range, a shot that would be impossible to miss. That was before they looked into the face of the man wielding the rifle, saw his implacable blue eyes, and realised that he wouldn’t hesitate to take the shot. Even Callow, who came out last, swallowed down the abuse that he was ready to deliver.
Milton directed them down to the fire. He unfastened them, one by one, allowing each of them to eat breakfast, drink a mug of coffee, and then relieve himself in the underbrush before he secured him again and moved on to the next man. The routine was laborious, and it took half an hour, but he knew that it would be a lot easier to transport the prisoners south if they had full bellies and empty bladders.
He observed them carefully, assessing them, trying to work out the hierarchy that existed within their group. Callow was obviously in charge, with Chandler his deputy. The other two were just lackeys.
He noticed one curious thing as he undid and then refastened the cable ties:
they each had a tattoo inscribed on the inside of their wrists.
The tattoos were identical. Two numbers separated by a colon, “1” and “3.”
“What does that mean?” he asked Chandler, the last to be attended to.
He turned his wrist over so that the tattoo was hidden and said nothing. Milton didn’t press.
MILTON HAD the men sit back down in front of the embers of the fire and then called Arty to come over to him.
“Could I have a word with you, Arty?”
“Sure, Mr. Milton.”
Michael Callow stared at Arty with unveiled hatred, and Milton saw how badly it frightened him. His hands were shaking as he took him by the arm and led him away from the fire.
“I found their shotguns last night,” Milton said to him. “In the shack. The FBI will need them for evidence, but I don’t want to bring them all with us, and I don’t want to leave them here, ready to be fired. It’s not safe. Could you get them for me?”
“I sure can.”
“I saw three. Do you know if there are any more?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could you have a look?”
“Sure.”
He hurried away, and Milton walked across to where Ellie and Mallory were finishing their coffees.
“Are you ready?” he asked them.
“I think so,” Ellie said.
Mallory nodded, her mouth full.
“Mallory, you’ll need to keep an eye on your brother. Those boys have scared him.”
“I know,” she said, her eyes flinty. “You don’t need to worry about him.”
“I don’t want them talking to him. If they start, we’ll get them to stop.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“It’s difficult to speak with a rag in your mouth.”
She grinned at the thought of that, and Milton was almost tempted to gag them anyway, just to keep her happy.
“They’re going to go up front, and I’ll come behind them. I’ll have a shotgun on them. They’ll know not to do anything rash. If I fire, it’ll make a mess of all of them.”
“What about me?” Ellie asked.
“You’re with me. Let them know that you’ve got your pistol and you’ll use it if you have to.”
They turned as Arty came out of the store with the three shotguns clasped to his chest.
“Is that it?”
“There’s no more.”
“Good work.”
One of the shotguns was double-barrelled. He wanted that one for himself, far better for suppressing a group of men than his rifle. It was loaded with two shells. That was all he wanted. Two shells ought to be enough for him to put down any attempt to escape but, if it wasn’t, if he was overpowered and they confiscated the gun, then they would have two trigger pulls and that would be that. He wouldn’t have to face an enemy with an even more serious advantage.
He set the other two down on the ground and, taking out his Swiss Army knife, opened one of the smaller blades and took up the first gun. It was a Mossberg 500 Series, nice and new, certainly not cheap. He checked the magazine tube and the chamber and removed the ammunition, then opened the action halfway, using the blade to turn the takedown screw counterclockwise. He pulled forward on the barrel, separating it from the receiver. He removed the barrel from the other shotgun just the same and slipped both of them into his pack. He gave the receivers back to Arty and asked him to take them back to the store.
He went back to the fire and used a long stick to break it apart.
The four young men looked up at him with hatred in their eyes.
“Ready, boys?” he said. “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”
MILTON CUT an azimuth to a tree on the top of the ridge, intending to pick up the old railroads that they had used to traverse the back country as they headed up to the lake yesterday. The weather was clear and bright, and looked set to stay that way for the rest of the morning, although Milton looked at the high, scudding clouds borne along by strong winds, and he wondered how long it would take for the rain to return. They left the campsite much as they had found it. Ellie would return with the FBI in due course. The motorbikes and the shotguns would yield useful evidence in the proceedings that would be brought against the four suspects.
Milton took his rope and looped it around the waist of each man. He refastened the cable ties so that their hands were in front of them rather than behind their backs. The first couple of hours would involve a challenging climb up steep terrain, and if one of them lost his balance he might bring the others down with him.
“All right,” Milton said. “Let’s get started. Up to the ridge.”
They set off in formation: Eric Sellar, Reggie Sturgess, Michael Callow, and Tom Chandler, then Milton with the shotgun and Ellie with her pistol, then Mallory, and Arthur. Milton had slung his rifle across his shoulder, beneath his pack, and held the shotgun in a loose and easy grip, his finger just outside the trigger guard, two cartridges loaded and ready to fire.
They started the climb up to the top of the ridge. The four young men tramped up the slope with sullen dispositions. Sellar tripped halfway up, his right foot sliding through a patch of loose gravel, and he dropped to one knee, cursing as the sharp stones cut through his trousers. Milton held out an arm, holding Ellie, Mallory, and Arthur behind him, wary of a ruse to bring him in close enough so that the others could try to overpower him. There was no attempt, though, and, as Sellar clambered back to his feet, Callow cursed at him for nearly bringing him down, too.
They crested the rise after an hour and found the remnants of a gravelled road that they had missed on the way to the lake yesterday. It was heavily overgrown with evergreens and tangles of alder, and Milton was glad that the moose and bear had preserved something of a trail through it. Eventually, the gravel petered out, and they bisected the ancient railroad. Milton told the men to follow it, their course changing by twenty degrees, as they headed southwest to Mirror Lake.
The railroad descended at a gentle slope, passing through pleasant meadows full of lacy ferns and long grasses. They stopped for ten minutes, and Milton cut a fresh azimuth to bring them right up to the southeastern edge of the lake. They reached the water’s edge at lunchtime and stopped for thirty minutes to refill their canteens. Milton took out the PowerBars that he had bought in Truth and handed them around. They all devoured them hungrily. Milton had enough for them to have another bar each, and that would have to be enough. He had no intention of stopping again if he could avoid it.
Ellie, Mallory, and Arthur sat away from the others, talking quietly amongst themselves and staring out at the pair of loons that were floating quietly on the lake, the birds stabbing down into the water with their sharp beaks to catch the minnows that were drifting in the clear waters beneath them.
Milton looked down at his map and cut a fresh azimuth. They had made good time. It was twelve miles back to Truth from the lake. He would have been able to make that at a forced march pace in three hours. He figured that the others would slow him down by half, perhaps even three quarters. Even if it took them twice as long, they would still be in Truth by nightfall.
“Everyone up,” he said. “Let’s go.”
THE PRISONERS began to complain soon afterwards. It started as grumbling and bickering between the four of them, with Callow making dark suggestions that Chandler was responsible for what had happened to them by persuading him that it would be entertaining to bring Arty Stanton up to the lake. Chandler was defensive, responding tetchily that Callow had needed little persuasion.
Milton listened to them argue and wondered how they managed to stay out of sight for so long. They were unprofessional and unprepared, and it had been child’s play to apprehend them. If the roles had been reversed, Milton would have established a permanent watch up on the ridge, he would never have allowed a campfire during the day, there would have been no alcohol, and he most certainly would not have allowed an outsider to be brought into the camp f
or something so trivial as a means to alleviate the boredom. And yet, with all their inexperience and immaturity, they had managed to hide out from the local police and the FBI for weeks. Milton could barely credit it.
They were skirting the boundary of an old cedar swamp festooned with ferns, skunk cabbage, and a carpet of viridescent moss, when Callow turned his head.
“So, who are you?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Why? Frightened what I might do to you when I get out?”
Milton allowed himself a chuckle. “Do I look frightened?”
“No. You look like you’re hiding behind that shotgun. Why don’t you put that down, untie my hands, and see how tough you are then.”
Milton smiled at him, easy and confident. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”
“Yeah, bitch? You think?”
Milton jerked his head forwards. “Keep walking.”
“You think I’m going to get locked up?”
“I know you are.”
“Fuck that shit. I ain’t getting locked up for nothing, brother.”
“You killed a man. You’re going away for a long time. I think you’re lucky that they don’t execute their prisoners in Wisconsin.”
Callow hawked up a ball of phlegm and spat it noisily at the side of the road.
“He don’t know shit,” Eric Sellar said, with confidence he shouldn’t have felt, a smile curling his lip. “He’s got no idea.”
“Shut up, Eric,” Callow warned.
“I was just saying—”
“You were just saying nothing. You just keep walking, that’s all, all right?”
Sellar glowered at Callow, but did as he was told.
“You sure you don’t want to show me how tough you really are?”
Milton jabbed him in the shoulder blades with the muzzle of the shotgun.
Milton stretched his fingers and then curled them back around the stock and the fore-end. Something was making him unsettled, and he knew what it was: Callow was full of piss and vinegar when he really ought to have been anxious. He was trussed up and forced to march at gunpoint back into town, where he would be handed over to the FBI and swallowed up by the legal process. Milton could tell that he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer and that he was young and dumb enough to think that making threats in front of his friends equated to leadership in testing circumstances. But there was something about it that didn’t chime for him. Something wasn’t right.
