Gypsy in Amber

by Martin Cruz Smith

  ‘Finisterre.’

  ‘Right. And we’d make our own laws. Like we’d have things rise instead of fall and water could run upstream.’ She crouched next to his knee for warmth. ‘Is it silly to want that?’

  ‘Everybody wants that.’

  She was answering him when he put his finger over her lips. The white blur was moving through the trees again closer than Roman had expected. Hillary’s body was close to Roman’s, and he heard her heartbeat go from a placid rhythm to terror. Howie was looking up at them, studying the shadows inside the apron of branches. Something smaller moved down the hill like a bouncing ball. It was a rabbit. As the tall white blur moved on, Hillary stifled a laugh of relief. Her heartbeat returned to normal. Roman would have put his arm around her if he could. His sleeves and the front of his shirt were smudged with red where the ropes had rubbed the skin raw. She helped him to his feet, and they ran together to the next jagged line of pines. His back and legs were stiff from their cramped posture, and he moved gracelessly in her wake.

  Hillary had just slid under the bows of their new hiding place when she screamed. The cry pierced the night like a bubble. Roman tossed himself beside her. A saw-toothed trap was shut on her foot. He recalled what she’d said about Howie leaving the rest of them in camp while he supplied food. That’s what Howie had been doing all night, checking his traps. The teeth of this one had only closed over the toe of her sneaker. She took her foot out and left it hanging.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and hiccupped with fear.

  ‘That’s okay, but we have to get out of here.’

  It was too late. They saw Howie as soon as they crept out of the trees. He was running down from the knoll full tilt. When he saw them, he waved the sword and yelled unintelligibly. He approached as easily and mindlessly as the wind, his face lit by the moon with triumph. Roman and Hillary tried running downhill, but Howie caught up with them before they even reached their last hideout.

  Roman, of course, was the first one he reached. Howie brought the sword down with both hands on his back. Roman kept running and Howie struck two more times, the blade sinking deep into its target. Still Roman ran with his head down as the blows came down, almost jarring him off his feet. The crescent tip sliced over his head once, cutting off part of the goat’s horn. Hillary hobbled far ahead on one sneaker, turning back up the hill. Roman fell to his knees and rose in one motion as Howie chopped and grunted in frustration. The face Roman saw was barely recognizable. Howie’s lids were drawn back from bulging eyes, his lips stretched over his teeth. Roman tried dodging between the pines. Howie shrieked with pleasure and knocked him through the stiff branches, the sword flashing like quicksilver as it met Roman coming out. Roman’s cramped legs started to give out and slip on the blanket of needles.

  As Howie rose up for a final blow, Roman dived at his feet. Howie’s swing had already started. It missed and Howie went with it, plummeting face first. The needles rolled under him, allowing his hands nothing to grip. The sword spun on and on halfway down the hill before it hit a tree and came to rest.

  Roman watched the disconsolate figure slide down the hill to gather its weapon. He saw the sword clearly, even its twisted handle of silver and bronze, as it lay in its cushion of needles. Howie took the sword away from the tree and stood looking back up the hill for the Gypsy without success. Roman saw him very clearly.

  Roman started up toward the knoll. By the time he reached it his arms were free, and he was toting the goat over his shoulder like a sack. Once again the whole island lay around him. Howie was desperately climbing the hill far behind.

  ‘You’re alive.’ Hillary stepped from a tree timidly, afraid to believe her eyes. ‘You’re alive,’ she said with more certainty. ‘He couldn’t kill you. I saw it.’ She touched his face.

  Roman unslung the goat from his shoulder. The carcass was nearly cut through, and one whole side was crosshatched with gaping slices. There was little bleeding because the animal was already dead. The ropes that bound it to Roman were cut through in several places. He rubbed his arms to encourage the circulation.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said as he massaged a raw sore. It shook her, and he added, ‘I know I’m invulnerable, but even a Gypsy likes sympathy. Howie’s going to be here soon so we’d better go.’

  ‘Where are we going to hide now?’

  ‘We’ve stopped hiding.’

  She wanted to ask what he meant, but he was leading her down the west slope of the pine forest. He continued to carry his grotesque burden. Not that it held them up. They had gravity going their way, and they slid on the seat of their pants through a rustle of needles. He led her through the dark maze as easily as if it were day. Once or twice she thought she saw a contented smile on his face.

  The roller coaster ended when his arm shot out and grabbed her. Hillary skidded on her back to a stop. Overhead the pines were an angular wall bordering a blank sky.

  ‘What is it?’ She sat up and found herself on the edge of a rock shelf. Her feet dangled over a twenty-foot drop through the tops of dogwoods and sycamores.

  ‘It’s a part of the island you’ve never been to before. We don’t run anymore. We face Howie.’

  ‘You mean we’re in a corner.’

  ‘If you try to hide, that’s where you end up; that’s what corners and Finisterres are for. I should have faced Howie after I went to your house. I didn’t. Well, Howie’s coming down this hill any minute, and I’ll have to face him.’

  ‘You don’t seem very sorry.’

  ‘It’s easier for me. You should split now. If things go wrong, you can hide until he leaves.’

  ‘I have to watch.’ She shook her head.

  ‘He may get lucky.’

  ‘Howie doesn’t have a chance. I always knew that.’

  He thought she was babbling about magic again until he caught the pinholes of pain in her eyes. She was talking about something he knew very little of, that he wanted to know nothing of.

  ‘That’s it then.’ He took her hand, and they edged their way along the granite shelf, dragging the carcass with them. Howie hadn’t been along earlier in the day, but it was possible he knew the outcropping. Roman thought of the face with the sword and doubted that it made a difference. The fringe of a sycamore below touched their feet while the pines at their back tried to push them over. They moved cautiously until the higher shelf rose behind them. Ten feet farther on, the rock at their level curved around a dark void.

  A short step beyond the curve brought Roman to the lip of the hole. His bare foot felt the roughness where Isabelle had almost fallen in. He located the eighteen inches of solid ground between the hole and the wall and stepped lightly to it. The hedgehogs, if they’d returned home, were silent.

  Hillary took his hand, and he guided her beside him. There was barely enough room for the two of them, and she had to make herself as comfortable as she could in a niche in the wall. Roman stretched across her to reach the goat’s rope. He pulled its carcass carefully between her feet and the hole to him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Howie set a trap for us. We set a trap for him.’ He ran his hand along the rope. The part that had been cut into short sections he’d left by the knoll. Even the part he had was badly damaged. It only had to service once, he told himself. He tied a loop around the goat’s shoulders and gave the other end to Hillary.

  ‘Roman, remember your promise.’

  It seemed pointless after all the other promises he’d broken. Still, he said, ‘I know, that’s what I’m trying to do.’

  He searched the granite wall at their back until he found a handhold. Hillary thought he must be climbing on air; but he moved quickly up the rock, and the next thing she knew he was asking for the rope. She threw it up. The goat began rising.

  He worked fast, with an exhilaration he was ashamed of. He selected a strong branch for the gallows and tossed the rope around it twice. The free end of the rope he secured around the trunk of the pine. The goat lay on
the ground under the branch and the slack rope. Roman checked the branch once more for snags and pushed the carcass out gently. As it cleared the upper rock, the body changing from horizontal to vertical over the lower shelf, Roman played the rope out slowly, and the suspended goat sank until it hung with its hooves just inside the shadow of the hole. He secured it at that height with another knot at the trunk. He took off his shirt and used it as a muffle to break some of the smaller branches.

  Hillary was near panic. She’d stopped thinking of the animal when it was on his back. Hanging beside her gave it human proportions, the warning of the overdone suicide. She fastened on Roman’s whisper gratefully and took the branches as he handed them down. She thought he left, and then he was next to her again.

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘You set a trap for what you want to catch,’ he said. He laid the branches over the hole, partially covering the dangling feet.

  He tried judging the outline of the carcass. It sagged badly where the lower legs were barely joined to the body anymore. He covered the defect by dressing the animal in his shirt.

  ‘I didn’t think – ’ She caught her breath. The goat swayed and touched her leg.

  ‘I know. Just stay as still as you can now. I’ll come through first and then Howie. You don’t have to do a thing. Here.’ He took something from his pocket and gave it to her. She knew immediately from the feel what it was.

  ‘That helps.’

  Roman didn’t have the stomach to say anything. There were lies and there were lies, and if she thought the bat’s eye helped, she could have it. He steadied the goat and gave it one last critical appraisal. In the shadow of the pines all that would be visible would be a body with his shirt on.

  ‘Thank you, Roman. I know what this means to you,’ Hillary said. He was gone, though. The clothed carcass jiggled beside her in the breeze.

  The moon swelled and grew fat as it descended. The air became fresher, making the pine needles shiver as he moved up the hill to the knoll. Howie would be somewhere nearby because there’d be gore on the sword and he’d think they couldn’t go far. Roman made a complete circle of the knoll, and then he went to the top. The new wind was especially strong there, coming from the east. He settled on his stomach and waited. It wouldn’t be long. Time was running out for Howie.

  Howie was worried. It was obvious even at a distance. He was running back and forth where he had caught them. His mouth was open and gasping. Roman waited until the wind slacked off, then he started speaking just loud enough for his voice to carry. ‘Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock.’

  Howie stopped and stared up the knoll.

  ‘The clock struck one, and down he run, hickory dickory dock.’

  Howie was coming up. Roman waited until he was fifty yards away, and he moved backward off the knoll. He swung down through the pines. He stopped when he could still see the knoll and started talking again.

  ‘Ekkeri akkery, ukeryan, fillisi follasi nakelàs jan, ekkeri akkery ukery an.’

  Howie’s head appeared over the knoll, and then his shoulders. His blond hair was ragged with briars. There were dark circles under his eyes. He carried the sword low. During the long night it had become heavy. He looked warily around.

  ‘Hokkani bukkani dook, the rat ran up the clock.’

  Howie saw him. The white figure crossed the knoll in two strides and came down the hill. He paid no attention to the trees, slicing at the branches as he plunged down in as straight a line as possible at the retreating man.

  Roman twisted through the pines. He heard Howie fall and collide with a tree. Then the feet were following him again. He disappeared by cutting at a right angle from his path. The feet stopped. He let Howie get impatient for the voice before he spoke again.

  ‘The clock struck one,’ the feet were sliding through the needles already, ‘and down he run, bokkani bukkani dook.’

  Howie burst through the trees. Roman swung around a tree and ran to his left. Howie stumbled, swinging at him, but his fall carried him right behind Roman. Roman cut back to his right, sliding on his thigh. A branch separated cleanly by his head as Howie swung again. The sword began slowing Howie down. Roman gained a foot, then a yard, and Howie’s thrusts became more and more futile. Roman cut even more sharply to his right, and Howie fell, not able to grab a tree immediately because he was more concerned with holding onto the sword. Roman had completely disappeared. Howie stood up and leaned against a tree. This was an area of the island he’d never been in before. He took one step and held onto the tree tighter. Five feet in front of him was a rock ledge, and beyond that was nothing.

  Roman stood on the ledge where the wall rose behind it. He waited until he was satisfied nothing had fallen into the lower woods. Then he repeated, ‘Hokkani hukkani dook.’

  Howie’s head snapped around. The Gypsy was closer than he’d dared hope. He held the sword straight out at his waist and padded along the ledge.

  Roman took five steps back. A pine needle cracked in the dark where Howie was coming from.

  ‘Avata ratti dosch.’

  Another needle broke. Howie was becoming less anxious about being quiet. He saw the wall block the stone shelf off from escape through the pines. He hesitated because he didn’t know whether Roman had taken the exit.

  Roman crouched where the shelf curved. He couldn’t see Howie in the gloom of the pines’ shadows, just the frequent reflection of the sword as it turned over and over.

  ‘Cocalor dan, dand ba ran.’

  He turned the corner, brushing Hillary as he slid by the hole. The goat was spinning ever so slowly. He stopped it and positioned himself behind the carcass and the branches at its feet. He took one look at Hillary. Her eyes had the bright glaze of something that was being tortured to death.

  The silhouette of the corner of the wall steadily grew as Howie came around it. He inched his way forward holding the blade in front. His foot distinguished the edge of the shelf from air, and he turned the corner.

  ‘Hokkani bukkani dook.’

  Howie almost lost his balance as he heard the voice and saw the shadowy figure directly in front of him. He exhaled faintly and moved forward again, watching the white shirt. As he stepped past Hillary hidden in her niche, the sword appeared as a coil of light high above his head.

  ‘Don’t!’ Hillary broke out.

  Howie halted and turned. They touched and looked directly at each other’s face. Hillary screamed.

  Roman saw Howie changing the angle of his cut so she wouldn’t be protected by the wall. There was no way he could reach them over the hole. He pushed the goat. It swung too lazily to Howie, and he saw it coming. He had plenty of time to set himself and swing at its belly. The blade sliced through the intestines like butter. There was no backbone left; it had already been chopped through. The lower half of the carcass dropped through the branches into the hole. Howie staggered forward, propelled by the momentum of his swing. His front foot slipped over the edge of the hole and he grabbed the swinging torso. He managed to pull himself nearly out when the strain finally snapped the damaged rope. He and the top of the goat vanished together down the hole. His last act was to throw the sword aside so that he wouldn’t land on it.

  They sat and waited on the ledge for two hours. In all that time there wasn’t a sound from the hole. At last the dark began washing out of the sky, not so much as if day were entering victoriously as if night simply let go. The lower woods were still in shadow when the tops of the pines veered toward the dawn. Roman let himself down in the hole. It was obvious Howie could outwait them all.

  He was on the bottom, his arms locked around the goat. The sword lay harmlessly beside them along with the legs it had cut off. Howie didn’t move as Roman passed the sword up to Hillary, and didn’t start as Roman turned him over. His last surprise was in his face. Roman quickly shielded him and rearranged it, closing the eyes and drawing the corners of the mouth down. It was more than he could do for the girl on the aluminu
m table, but Howie still looked like a broken bust put back, subtly, completely ruined. Roman pulled the goat out of his arms. Its absence left two spongy holes in Howie’s chest where its horns had cradled. The animal’s gold, gun-slit eyes caught the first light of day as it broke over the pines.

  ‘Howie sacrificed himself,’ Hillary said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Now that makes sense,’ Isadore decided. ‘He wanted to get the girl’s money; that’s why he framed her old man. Don’t give me any of this hocus-pocus stuff.’

  Roman and Isadore were making slow progress down Centre Street to department headquarters. Every time Isadore wanted to make a point he stopped and jabbed a stubby index finger into Roman’s arm. Pedestrians took second looks at the round policeman and the dark man with the patch on his head.

  Roman snapped his fingers.

  ‘I never thought of that.’

  Isadore scowled. ‘Sure. Well, you better think of this: Your testimony’s the only thing between those kids and a healthy sentence. They’re only out of trouble as long as you are, at least until the trial is over. So stay clean.’ His finger beat a tarantella on Roman’s shoulder.

  Roman countered by whistling a mazurka. It gave him a headache, but it kept Isadore from asking any more questions. They went into headquarters and got on an elevator.

  ‘Lousy home life,’ Isadore relented. ‘That’s what did it. They wouldn’t have swallowed any of that stuff if they had good homes.’

  The psychological explanation seemed to be a respectable compromise between Roman’s demon theory and the usual economic motivation. ‘Don’t give me any more tales about the devil. It’s not the sort of case breakdown that the captain likes.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I can’t say that a werewolf in the shape of this Howie tried to start a new wave of human sacrifices. It looks a little funny on the file cards. You’ll have to bear with us if we say Howard Washington Hale, thirty-two, mental discharge from the Marine Corps, schizoid, superior intelligence, tried to work a new racket. Okay?’