"No."
"Well, fuck it then. Let's just get out of here."
They got in the jeep and drove back to St. Mary's. Jean could hear Michael sighing in the passenger seat every minute or so. "Will you stop worrying about that goddamned quarter," she said.
"All right, I know, it's stupid. I'm just...you know, it makes me think how easy it is to screw up. I mean, nobody can think of everything. It just makes me realize how haphazard this whole thing is."
"We plan as well as we can. You can't foresee everything."
"You got that right."
At the motel they met Chuck and Sam, who had changed from their hunting clothes. Chuck was wearing a brown and orange striped sweater and khakis, and Sam had on a pair of black designer jeans and a tight black sweater.
"Hey," Chuck said as he followed them into Jean's room, "let's go out and celebrate, huh? I asked at the desk, and the guy said that Bavarian Inn's pretty good. Hell, we've had nothing but pizza and take-out chicken since we been here. Whaddya say?"
"I'm not...very hungry," Jean said as she took off her hunting jacket and tossed it in a corner.
"Somethin' spoil your appetite?" Sam said knowingly. "Seen a little too much rare meat today?"
"I just don't want to go out," Jean said, refusing to meet the girl's gaze.
"It's not that smart for any of us to be seen more than we have to be," Michael added. "The lower profile we keep, the better off we are."
"Mikey, I want a fucking steak," Chuck said. "And Sam wants a fucking steak too, and we're gonna go and get one. We just thought it would be nice if you two came along with us. Hell, nobody knows who we are, we could just be two lovey-dovey hunting hubbies and wifies who got tired of looking for venison, you know?"
"Maybe..." Jean thought for a moment. Chuck and Sam were loose cannons. If they went out alone, there was no telling what would happen. They could get drunk, and talk about what they had done earlier that day, or, if the mood took them, they could even repeat part of it with guns and knives. Jean couldn't take a chance on that happening.
She looked at Michael and saw the concern she felt in his eyes as well. "Okay," she said. "Wait until I shower and change."
"A party, a party," Sam chanted as she danced out the door.
Chuck followed her. "Don't be too long now," he said as he walked out. He stopped at the door and looked back at Michael. "You gonna help her shower or what?"
Michael frowned and left as well, going to the room he had shared with Timothy Weems. Thinking of Timothy reminded Jean to turn on the television while she undressed. But she found that the local news was long over, and CNN was covering some political debate, so she turned on the radio instead.
She spent a long time in the shower, letting the water beat down on her as she washed her hands and nails with the washcloth over and over again. As she toweled herself dry, she learned from the radio that the identity of the hunter who had been accidentally wounded was still not known, but that authorities felt there was a link between the man and the killings that had plagued northern Pennsylvania. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had been called in, and agents were expected to arrive the following day.
She froze when she heard that. It was not that she was afraid of them, but she—and the others—had one more thing to do before they left this place. If FBI agents surrounded and questioned Ned Craig, she might not be able to get to him to perform her final act of vengeance.
Then she would have to beat the FBI agents to the man, that was all.
She got dressed, and took a longer time than usual over her hair and makeup. Who, she wondered, was she trying to impress? It seemed so ironic that they should be going out after what they had done this afternoon. It was not the kind of thing one would celebrate, and yet it had been their goal, and they had accomplished it. What was there not to celebrate?
Still, she did not know if she could bring herself to eat. The smell was still strong in her nostrils, and she dabbed some perfume on her upper lip to neutralize it. It didn't work. Now she smelled flowered death, a slaughterhouse planted with violets. The smell made her giddy, and before she knew what she was doing, she was bent over the toilet bowl, throwing up what was left of her sparse lunch.
She coughed and hawked until the last bitter shreds came up, then pushed herself to her feet. She could taste it now as well as smell it, and she saw it too, afraid that she would always see it, that no matter how good her reasons for doing what she had done, those corpses would always be there behind her eyes, as cruel and unforgettable as the bloody images of baby seals, skinned deer carcasses, blinded rabbits, and tortured dogs that had led her to this place and this act. They would be there, as implacable as man's cruelty to the creatures with which he shared the earth, and to his fellows.
Think of the cause, she told herself, the cause.
But as she thought of the savaged bodies of the animals, they turned before her eyes into men, guilty men, men who were stupid and cruel, but men. That afternoon she had worked in a dream. She had wielded her knife as though she had not really been there, as though she were doing what she did in a dream that had no consequences or repercussions, and she would wake up in her bright bedroom overlooking L.A., and there would be no blood on her hands.
But this was not L.A., and she was wide awake, and she could still see thin, half-moons of pink clinging to her cuticles. She choked back more bile, spat, and scrubbed her hands once more with the washcloth under the hottest water she could bear.
Then she cried quietly, sitting naked on the toilet lid, wishing that they had never come here, that Andrew had never killed that man to start the butchery, wishing that Ned Craig had never found and killed Andrew, dear, sweet, stupid Andrew who wanted to please her so much that he would do anything, even slaughter a man like a deer, and it had been stupid for him to do it on his own, yes, but he had done it for her, and Ned Craig had killed him, and that, God damn it, was why Ned Craig had to die.
It was done. No matter how much she might want to, she could not change anything that had happened in the past few days. So she might as play it out, finish it. And finishing it meant finishing Ned Craig first thing tomorrow morning.
She wiped her tears away, vowing to shed no more, fixed her makeup, and got dressed. If she could not forget what had happened, then she would celebrate it, revel in it, be among her friends who felt the way she did.
Her blood brothers.
The Bavarian Inn served decent food. Chuck and Sam had their steaks, and she and Michael had the fish. She had thought about a vegetarian plate, but that order didn't go with the persona of hunters. They had drinks before dinner, and wine with their meal, so by the time the dishes were cleared away, they were all feeling mellow. Even Sam seemed more subdued than usual.
Jean paid the bill in cash, as they had paid everything since arriving in Pennsylvania. The four of them drove back to the motel, where she asked them to come into her room to make the plans for tomorrow. "One thing left," she said. "Ned Craig."
"The hunk?" Sam asked.
"How you know he's a hunk?" Chuck's words sounded slurred, and Sam thought he had too damn much to drink.
"His picture was on the news, and he looked like a hunk."
Chuck snorted. "Boy scout."
"Well, hunk or boy scout," Jean said, "I want him tomorrow."
"So you want us to get him for you?" Sam said. That was just like this bitch. Me me me, do what I want, listen to what I say. Sam had known bitches like Jean Catlett in community college. The place was full of them. That was why she'd only lasted three months.
"No. I'll get him myself. I just want one of you as backup. The others can stay here and wait."
"Then what?" Chuck said.
"Then we go home. Our work's done."
"We didn't get to take down a tower," Sam said.
"What?"
"Chuck wanted to take down a tower."
"A fire tower?"
"Yeah. He hasn't blown up a goddam thing
since we got here. What's all that plastic for anyway? I thought we were gonna have some fun with that."
"We've taken enough chances," Jean said. "The executions at the camp will prove our point. Besides, taking down a tower would be against what we're working for. Those fire towers are to prevent fires. Fires kill animals."
"Well, I think," said Sam in what she considered to be a gushy, upper crust accent, "that the political benefit, uh, derived from such an explosion would more than make up for any risk to wildlife."
"Hey, don't forget," Chuck added, "it'd be fun too."
"No," Jean said, her face hard. "Absolutely not. We execute Craig tomorrow and that's it."
Sam gave a hiss of disgust through her teeth. "Oh, like how come we always gotta do what you say? Who like made you Queen Shit?"
"My money financed this, and I'm the one who planned it," Jean said in her snotty voice. "It's not a pleasure outing."
"Yeah, well, maybe it oughta be a little. I mean, we done everything you said. You say go out and kill a hunter, we go out and kill a hunter. You say, slice these guys and hang 'em up, we slice 'em and hang 'em up. Well, we did what you said and made you happy, and now we just wanta have a little fun. There's more to life'n just what you want." She took a beat, then added, "Bitch."
Michael held up a hand. "Okay, knock it off."
"Aw, fuck you too," Sam said.
"Shut up!" Michael barked. "I can't fucking believe this, what are you, a little kid? You want to blow up a tower? Hell, why don't we steal a bunch of hunters' cars and run them off a cliff and watch them all blow up? But why stop there? Let's wait until they go into outhouses and then tip them over? You want fun? Let's soap their cabin windows!"
Sam looked at him, her best sneer in place. "You're really itchin' to get into her pants, aren'tcha?"
"I don't give a damn about getting into anybody's pants. I came out here to fight for something I believe in, and I did that, and I think it's had—or will have—a hell of an effect. And I don't want to screw it up by doing something stupid!"
"This is great," Chuck muttered. "Go for the jugular, Sam."
Sam looked at him and had to laugh at the dopey grin on his face. She was about to say okay, whatever, but Michael kept talking.
"What we have to do tomorrow is perform an execution. One of us was killed, and if we have any loyalty to each other, the killer has to pay. Now you two can stay here in the morning, and Jean and I will—"
"No," Jean said. "I want Chuck with me on this."
"Chuck?" Michael's voice nearly squeaked, and Sam giggled at the way his bubble burst.
"Sure, asshole," Sam said. "That way she can make sure that Chuck and I don't get into any twouble"—she spoke the word like a little girl—"while she's gone."
"Nah," Chuck said. "She just picked me 'cause my dick's bigger." Sam and Chuck both exploded into laughter, but Jean went white.
"My reason's my own business. Chuck, I want you at the jeep at 5:00 tomorrow morning. We'll sit out in front of his house and get him as he leaves for work."
"Who does the shooting, boss lady?" Chuck asked.
"We both will. Twice the chance of killing him."
"So what do I do?" Sam asked. "Play dominoes with Dickless here?" She hated being reprimanded, even if the other person was right.
"Why don't you kiss my ass?" Michael said.
"Maybe, when the boys are done fuckin' it."
"Stop it!" Jean shouted. "My God, we've come this far by working together, let's not blow it now! If you have to do something in the morning, Sam, pack. We'll be leaving as soon as Chuck and I get back. Michael, you can do the same, and settle up at the front desk. Now let's call it a night. And be sure you set your alarms."
"Will there be a fine if we get up late?" Sam said.
"Don't worry, babe," said Chuck. "I'll nudge you."
She put an arm on his shoulder and squeezed. Chuck was a sweetie, though he packed a lot less meat than he thought he did. Still, in this godforsaken piece-of-shit neck of the woods, you made do with what you had, and Sam was feeling more than a little horny.
All the slicing and dicing today had aroused her. She never felt more alive than when she looked death in the face, and today she had made its acquaintance half a dozen times. In the Goth underground of L.A., phony death was rampant, but the real stuff was rare. It wasn't until she had met Chuck that she had experienced the hot, crotch-burning thrill of shedding someone else's blood beside your own or your lover's in little dribbles.
What was great was when it jetted, when it just fucking ran out of them, like it had today. Jesus, it made her hot. She wished that she and Chuck would have had time to stop and do it then and there, right on the red ground in that freezing cold weather that would have coated their bare asses with goose bumps. But that bitch Jean was pushing them, telling them that it was getting dark, and how they had to hurry and get to a phone and call it in. Hell of a murderer, Sam thought, reporting yourself.
Chuck was the only one who knew, although she thought the others suspected, that Sam didn't give a shit for animals. Deer blood was just as red and nearly as cool as human blood. Sam liked wearing leather, which she couldn't do when she was with these animal freaks, and she thought fur was pretty radical too, even though it was a real kick to toss those buckets of paint on the rich bitches wearing them. During the few times she had joined in, Sam always aimed for their faces rather than the furs. The dumb cunts always gasped, and the paint went right in their mouths. God, cool.
She did like puppies and kittens, though. They were so damn cute. Sam had never done anything to hurt a puppy or a kitten, though grown cats and dogs were a different story. But even though she wasn't an animal nut, when Chuck had told her that there was a rich chick who was willing to finance a mayhem run with a chance for some real blood to flow, Sam had jumped at the chance. To go far away from her own stomping grounds, live out a fantasy of commando babe, and then run when the cutting was done had sounded just too good to be true.
And sure enough, it was. Jean had been a real shit to put up with. In fact, everybody other than she and Chuck were uptight assholes. But that jerk Andrew was dead, and old Timmy had been blasted and was out of the picture too, so that was cool.
Only two assholes to go. Then she and Chuck would be on their own, to do whatever the hell they wanted.
She and Chuck went back to their room, where they did a few lines of coke to get the booze out of Chuck's system. Then she stripped him and rode him until she came in a dizzying rush.
"What we gonna do tomorrow?" she asked him as they lay there, exhausted from both the sex and the strenuous day.
"Well, old Jeannie and I are gonna take out the Boy Scout, and then I don't know, I guess it's up for grabs."
"This has sure been fun."
"I am to please, missy."
"Not you, moron. I meant today."
Chuck barked a laugh that told her he had been joking, rolled over, and buried his head in his pillow.
After a while she said, "Chuck? You really wanta blow something up?"
"Mmm-hmm..."
"One of them towers?"
"That would be very cool," he said sleepily, and in another minutes she heard him snoring gently.
Damn, she thought. That would be cool. She thought about it for a while, then she thought about how cool it would be to see that bitch Jean get hers, then she thought about what they had done that day, and with those pleasant images of deeds done and yet to be done swirling in her head, she went to sleep.
The phone rang at Larry Moxon's house just before ten o'clock that evening. Ned was getting a shower before joining Megan in bed. They had decided to retire early so that they could go home, pack, and get started for Potter County before dawn.
Ned heard the bathroom door open slightly, and for a second thought that it might be the very people that he and Megan were getting ready to run from. Naked and wet, he had never felt more vulnerable. But Larry's voice calling his name brough
t him back to reality.
"Ned," he said. "Camp Kessler?"
It was a pristine non sequitur. "What?" Ned shouted over the shower's blast.
"Camp Kessler! Which one is that?"
He thought for a moment. "That old place that Ed Travis and Jim Lincoln have. Down in the state forest near 34."
"You know how to get there?"
"Yeah."
"In the dark?"
Ned stuck his head out from behind the shower curtain and looked at Larry's face. It was pale and grim, and Ned knew something was wrong. "What is it?"
Larry shook his head. "Finish up and come on out."
Ned toweled himself dry, put on an old robe of Larry's, and joined him in the kitchen. Megan, once again fully dressed, was sitting there too. Larry was holding the telephone handset, his hand over the mouthpiece.
"Statler's on the line," Larry said. "The police got a call from somebody calling themselves the Wildlife Liberation Front. They claimed responsibility for the killings yesterday. And apparently the guy you shot was one of them. They said that the cops should go to Camp Kessler right away—I guess to see what they did today. But Statler's rounded up all his boys and none of them know where the camp is, and they sure as hell don't want to contact any members of the family until they go out there and see what's what. Can you give him directions?"
"No. I'll take them out there." He started to the bedroom to change back into his clothes.
"They only need directions," Larry said meaningfully. "You don't need to get involved in this, Ned."
"They'd never find it in the dark. There are half a dozen wrong turns they could take, they'd wander around all night."
"Then I'm going with you," Larry said.
"Me too."
"No, Megan," Larry said. "This could be...pretty bad."
"Then I'll close my eyes," she said. "But I'm not staying here alone."
From her tone, Ned knew it was no use arguing. "I'll just be a minute."
They found Chief Statler and three of his men at the entrance to Moshannon State Forest, where Ned had told them to meet. Ben Sloan was also there with two medics. "I'm expecting the worst," Statler said by way of explanation. "I'd have brought the Feds, but they're not due here till tomorrow."
Hunters Page 14
