by David Stout
“Stew, Jamie. The vegetables are from cans. Do you like venison?”
“What’s that?”
The hermit decided not to tell him. “It’s like beef, Jamie. It’s a kind of beef.”
Jamie started to eat. He had had stew before, but never like this. It was good. Jamie was surprised at how hungry he was.
“Eat as much as you can, Jamie. ’Cuz you know what? In just a little while, I’m going to take you home. Or close to it.”
“To my father?”
“To your mother and father. Before it gets dark. Now tell me some more, Jamie.”
Proud that the boy seemed to like his cooking, the hermit let him eat. Every third or fourth spoonful, the hermit asked a question, letting Jamie answer in his own good time.
Jamie was getting used to Mr. Woody’s face. Wolf sat next to Jamie, and when he felt full Jamie asked if he could give the dog what was left on his plate. Mr. Woody said he could.
When the hermit thought he understood what had happened to the boy, he said, “I’ll bet your dad has a real big house, Jamie.”
“Yep, he does. I have a pony there.”
Rich, the hermit thought. “Jamie, I think someone kidnapped you to hold you for ransom.”
Jamie gave him a blank look, and the hermit reminded himself that the boy was only five.
“Can I go home?” Jamie said.
“Sure, Jamie. It’s fun to visit, though. Isn’t it?”
“I want to see my father,” Jamie said. “You’re not my father.”
“I know, Jamie. I know.” The hermit turned his face away to hide his sadness.
“I think I have to go to the bathroom again.” Jamie had eaten a lot.
“Okay. You know what to do.”
Alone, the hermit stood up and tried to clear his mind. He felt ashamed for almost asking the boy to call him Daddy. What a rotten thing to do. The boy had seen through it, too: “You’re not my father.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. The hermit sat down on his bed, put his head in his hands. Guilt was heavy on his shoulders. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and gulped once, twice, three times. He swallowed more than he meant to.
Good, the boy hadn’t come out yet. The hermit lay down and closed his eyes. He would rest for a few minutes, clear his mind.
Jamie was surprised to see Mr. Woody lying down. Then he heard the snoring. Jamie wanted to go home, but he was afraid to wake up the hermit.
Something cold and wet touched his hand. Wolf had nuzzled him.
“Wolf, do you want to play with me?”
The dog’s eyes were friendly, and his tail was wagging.
Jamie decided to play outside with Wolf until Mr. Woody was done with his nap. Jamie wanted a dog of his own someday.
Jamie put on his outdoor clothes as quietly as he could. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. He could smell the trees. “Come on, Wolf.”
Wolf didn’t seem to know what to do. The dog looked toward the figure snoring on the bed, then at Jamie. Finally, he followed the boy.
Jamie closed the door quietly and took a step in the fluffy snow. Then another step, and then he was running in the snow, kicking it up, and Wolf was right next to him. Jamie laughed. Wolf was almost as much fun as the pony back home. Jamie made little snowballs and threw them at the dog. The dog liked the game: He ran away from Jamie, then turned around and came racing back, as if he was going to run right into him. But he always turned away at the last second, and Jamie could tell from the eyes that the dog was having fun. Jamie wished he could take Wolf home. Jamie felt snow on his face, felt the wind.
The hermit stirred when he heard the tin cans jingle. The whiskey had left him sluggish, but he knew he hadn’t dreamed the noise. Why didn’t Wolf bark? The damn dog was supposed to be guarding—
The hermit sat up, looked around the cabin. Empty. “Jason! Where are you? Wolf…”
He leaped out of bed, grabbed his rifle, opened the door. He saw the tracks of boy and dog, heard the boy laughing and the dog snorting playfully on the other side of the cabin.
“Jas … Jamie! Come back in here! Wolf!”
A moment later, the boy appeared at the door, looking frightened.
“We, we have to get ready, Jamie. I’m sorry I, uh, fell asleep.”
“I was playing with Wolf.”
“I know. I know.”
There was a light snow already on the ground, and the wind was picking up. The air was colder, and the graying sky hinted at still more snow. Hard weather to travel in—or maybe good weather to travel in. He knew the woods better than anyone.
The boy had said there were two men who had kidnapped him. The hermit had seen only one. Maybe the two of them would come looking. Maybe they were both out there right now. The hermit cursed himself for having been careless.
The wind gusted, and all the cans jangled at once. Big snowflakes appeared.
The hermit closed the door. “We’re going for a long hike, Jamie. A hike in the snow. We’re going to take you home.”
Jamie pouted. “Can I play with Wolf some more?”
“Not now.”
The boy looked disappointed.
“Jamie, you want to go home, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I was having a good time with Wolf. And I wanted to build a snowman.”
“It’ll have to wait. We have to go now.”
“All right. Mr. Woody?”
“What?”
“Can Wolf come and see me?”
“Maybe, Jamie. Maybe.”
He got the boy snug on the sled, wrapped him in a blanket, and handed him a woolen ski mask. The hermit saw fear in the young face.
“What’s wrong, Jamie?”
“The men who took me had masks like that.”
“This is just a mask, Jamie. It’ll keep your face warm. You can see out of it.”
Jamie put the mask on. It itched. “One man held a big gun in front of Tony’s face.”
“A gun like this?” The hermit held up his carbine.
“Bigger even.”
Shotgun, the hermit thought. “I bet they wanted to make your dad pay a lot to get you back, Jamie. I bet that’s what happened.”
“How come my daddy didn’t just buy me back?”
The hermit was angry with himself for upsetting the boy. “Maybe he wanted to, Jamie. Maybe something went wrong.”
“Do you ever get lost in the snow?”
“I don’t get lost in the snow, Jamie. You know why? Because this is my home, these woods. Even deer hunters get lost out here sometimes. But I don’t.”
The hermit thought he saw the boy’s mouth wrinkle into a smile under the wool mask. “Jamie, you won’t be afraid of me if I wear a mask, will you?”
“No. I’ll know it’s still you.”
“Right. It’s still Mr. Woody.” The hermit put his mask on. Next, he fastened a sling to his carbine so he could carry it across his back. Finally, he checked his pockets: compass, two extra pairs of gloves, extra socks, extra cartridges for the rifle. In the deep pockets of his coat, he had two bags, one with bread, another with chunks of cooked deer meat—enough for himself, the boy, and Wolf. On the sled, strapped under and around the boy, he had put ponchos, with blankets tucked between them for dryness. He had also packed a thermos of coffee and a big canteen of water.
“Anything comes loose from the sled, you holler. Okay, Jamie?”
“Okay.”
The hermit put his back to the boy and tugged. The sled began to move.
“Are we going to Long Creek?” Jamie asked.
“Nope.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Deer County.”
“How come? Is it closer?”
“No.”
“How come we’re not going to the closer place? I want to see my daddy. And my mommy.”
The hermit thought fast. “I can’t explain why, Jamie, but this is the quickest and safest way, even if it’s farther. Do you trust me?”
Just the
n, Wolf appeared by the sled. The dog’s face was all happy. Jamie reached out and touched the dog’s back, and Wolf swung his head to brush Jamie on the leg. Jamie giggled.
“Do you trust me, Jamie?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Better tell Wolf you trust me.”
“Wolf, I trust”—Jamie giggled at the funny game—“I trust Mr. Woody.”
The dog looked at the boy, chortled deep in his throat, then trotted on ahead.
Jamie was happy. It was fun being pulled on the sled. Mr. Woody had fixed it so Jamie’s back was resting on the blankets and ponchos. It was like sitting in a chair, only better.
Jamie kept looking at Mr. Woody’s back as the sled glided along. The back looked big and strong. Jamie’s face was warm inside the mask. He saw lots of big snowflakes, and they made him think of the night the bad men had taken him away. But this time it was fun to look at the snow. Now and then, a flake settled on Jamie’s eyelashes and tickled as it melted. He was going home. Jamie closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The hermit glanced back, saw from the angle of the boy’s head that he was napping. Damn, he thought. I’m doing something for someone. Who would have thought? Jo, if you’re watching somewhere, look what I’m doing.
He kept a steady pace, deliberately going a little more slowly than his body wanted. He was saving his energy, just in case.
The weather was getting worse. It was borderline: cold enough, especially with the wind, and snowy enough to be dangerous—for anyone who didn’t know the woods. The hermit knew the woods.
He was glad the boy hadn’t pestered him too much about why he didn’t just go into Long Creek if it was closer. How to tell a kid about fear and hate from a long time ago? How to make him understand? He couldn’t. It didn’t matter.
The first few miles, the hermit spotted a couple of deer. Running ahead of him; Wolf flushed several grouse from their hiding places beneath the evergreens. The dog barked as the birds exploded from cover, drumming the air with their wings as they darted away through the trees and snow.
Every few minutes, the hermit would stop and stand still. Seeing his master motionless, Wolf would trot back and stand next to him, ears high. The hermit was nervous: The man he’d seen in the night near the burial place had to be one of the kidnappers. And now that the boy was free, the man would probably come back, looking for the boy. To kill him?
Each time he stopped, the hermit heard only the sounds of the ground and the trees and, now and then, the birds and animals.
The snow kept coming, though the wind let up a little. Depending on where he was, high ground or low, he could see fifty to a hundred yards.
When he was hungry, the hermit took out a big piece of bread and a few pieces of meat. He chewed slowly, so he could still hear around him. He gave a piece of crust and part of a hunk of meat to Wolf.
Let the boy sleep. Blessings on you, little man—is that how the old poem went? Damn, I hope I didn’t give him too much whiskey. Naw. He didn’t seem to have a headache. He’s just warm and happy, almost. I only wish he was safe.
The hermit ate an extra piece of bread, gave a nibble to the dog, and took the sled rope to press on again. It was then that he thought he heard something behind him. Wolf’s ears went up like spikes. The dog looked in the direction of the sound. It had been like a branch snapping, but not from a deer.
The hermit breathed in and out slowly, straining to hear. There it was again, the snap of a branch. From a man’s foot. Wolf growled deep in his throat.
“Shhh.” The hermit dragged the sled with the sleeping boy up onto a little rise and hunkered down under a big pine tree with Wolf next to him. “Shhh,” he commanded again, and with his hand he ordered the dog to lie low.
Snap. The noise was closer now, and suddenly there he was. The man stood in a little clearing about seventy-five yards back. Through the swirling snow, the hermit saw that the man wore camouflage clothes and carried a rifle. A hunter? Most of them were smart enough to wear bright orange or red. The hermit didn’t even know whether it was deer season yet; he hadn’t heard any rifle shots.
Maybe the man was hunting out of season. There were plenty of hunters like that, and the camouflage clothes would make it harder for game wardens to spot him.
Or maybe this was another kind of hunter—hunting him and the little boy.
As the hermit knelt and watched, the man stood still, looking all around. Then he looked down at the sled tracks and footprints of man and dog. Following us? Was he the same man? He could be, the hermit thought. He has the same height and build as the guy I saw in the dark. I think he does.
The man was studying the tracks, which were being erased by the wind and snow. He started walking again, toward the hermit’s hiding place. The hermit shifted his position slightly to relieve one knee, and, as he moved, his shoulder brushed a bough, knocking loose some snow that plopped onto the sleeping boy.
“Daddy!” The boy awoke with a start. Wolf growled, then barked. In his wake-up terror, Jamie kicked and punched at the air, and the sled moved. It slid down the little rise, slowly and harmlessly, coming to a gentle stop only a few yards away—but in plain sight of the stranger with the rifle.
The hunter walked toward them, rifle at the ready. The hermit saw that the rifle had a telescopic sight.
The hermit had his own weapon ready, with a round in the chamber. The man was less than fifty yards away now, and for a moment the hermit wondered whether the thing to do was just to shoot him and be done with it.
NO. He had never shot anyone, and there was no way to tell whether this was the guy he’d seen at the burial spot or just another poacher.
“Daddy!”
“Jamie, don’t move! Stay down!”
Now the hunter stopped, looked straight at the hermit, and seemed to raise his rifle. The hermit brought his carbine to his shoulder, aimed to the stranger’s left, and squeezed the trigger.
The noise of the shot echoed through the woods. Wolf barked, Jamie screamed, and the stranger seemed paralyzed in his tracks. In an instant, the hermit had chambered another round and was aiming at the man’s chest.
The man backed up. His head was shaking and his mouth was open in disbelief.
“Get out of here!” the hermit shouted. “Get away, or the next one’s right in your chest. I swear. The boy’s staying with me.”
The stranger turned and ran, and the hermit changed his aim. This time, he fired behind the man, close enough for the snow to kick up near his heels.
The echo died away, and the hermit knelt next to the sled and the weeping boy. “He’s gone, Jamie. No one’s taking you away again. I promise.”
Twenty-one
Will slept badly: too much scotch and tension, not enough rest. When he awoke, he tried at once to call Jerry Graham. No answer.
Trying to ignore fleeting thoughts of Heather Casey, he dressed and showered quickly, grabbed a breakfast of toast and coffee, and went to the police station. There, he found more commotion than usual for so early in the morning. It was two hours before the normal time for a briefing on the kidnapping.
Something had happened—Will could tell that at once from the crowd of reporters, camera people, and technicians. Please, God, Will thought, don’t let the kid be dead.
Will went with the crowd, down the corridor toward the briefing room. He spotted Jerry Graham coming the other way. “Jerry, what happened?”
“Glad you got here, Will. I would have sent for you in another few minutes.”
“Is the boy…?”
Graham leaned toward him and whispered. “We think the boy’s been spotted, Will. Alive.”
And before Will could say anything, the FBI man was gone.
Chief Robert Howe sat at the long table, waiting for his audience to settle down. As the chief studied the gathering with thinly veiled contempt, Will studied him in turn: Yes, there was a strong resemblance between the chief and his brot
her, the surly detective (although he had been much less surly with Heather Casey, but then Heather Casey wasn’t an outsider).
Jerry Graham sat next to the chief, waiting to be introduced and looking impatient.
God Almighty, Will thought. Why do we need a toastmaster here? Will felt like shouting what he had figured out the previous night. He thought it would be an eternity before he could talk to Graham alone. Latin Condensed, for God’s sake.
“This morning, I’m going to turn the proceedings over directly to Special Agent Graham,” the chief said.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Graham said. “Very early this morning, we received a report of a child, approximate age five to seven, seen in the dense woods near the border of Hill and Deer counties in the company of an adult male. We have reason to think that the child is Jamie Brokaw.”
There was a momentary commotion, during which Jerry Graham sipped coffee from a plastic cup. When the noise subsided, he went on: Early that day, a man identifying himself as a deer hunter had called the Deer County Sheriff’s Department, reporting that the previous day he had seen a man pulling a sled on which was strapped a child. The man had been accompanied by a very large dog, apparently a German shepherd, and had fired two shots when the deer hunter approached.
On the phone, the deer hunter had acknowledged that he was hunting illegally, before the start of the regular season, and he had therefore been reluctant to call the authorities.
“But his conscience got the better of him, and he finally called,” Graham said.
Graham went on to summarize what little the authorities knew: that the hunter had described the man in the woods as being medium height and build, wearing a ski mask—“You will recall that the kidnappers of Jamie Brokaw wore ski masks”—and that the sighting had taken place while it was snowing.
“The fact that the boy appeared to be strapped to the sled, plus the fact that the man fired two shots, makes it probable that the boy was Jamie Brokaw and the man with him one of the kidnappers,” Graham said.
One of the kidnappers, Will thought. Well, what about the other one? He could hardly concentrate on the questions and answers that flew by, so intent was he on getting Jerry Graham alone.
“Mr. Graham, would you please answer yes or no on whether the kidnappers managed to escape with the latest ransom bundle despite heavy surveillance of the drop site, and does this indicate that the authorities have lost control of the case?” The questioner was the beautiful young television reporter. One tough cookie, Will thought.
