The Method

by Ralston, Duncan

  No choice, he told himself. He would have been killed himself if he hadn’t shot the man, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it. He felt no pleasure and only little relief.

  As he looked down at the dead man, a familiar voice called his name.

  After she heard the ATV rev up and head away from the lodge, Linda pulled herself onto the dock and lay there a moment, catching her breath.

  Then she was up and on her feet, dashing up the ramp onto land and running in a crouch up the hill, where she paused on the ridge to survey the area.

  She watched the man in the duster enter the side door, and she hurried across the parking lot herself. At the door she paused, considering her next move, thinking he might have seen her approach and was lying in wait for her to step in. She wasn’t sure he had a weapon, but there was no reason to believe he didn’t.

  One thought got her moving: Frank.

  He was inside. He might be dead already if the man with the beard had found him. If he hadn’t, if Frank was still alive, he’d have even less of a chance of survival against two men with guns than just one.

  She opened the door.

  The hallway was clear.

  Linda stepped in, crept down the hall, and chanced a look around the corner just as the door marked “MAINTENANCE” swung shut.

  Her gaze fell on the stacked chairs.

  It worked before, she thought.

  She raised a heavy chair off the top of the stack and brought it to the maintenance closet. Wedging it under the door handle, something metallic clattered down the hall, catching her attention.

  She headed for the kitchen. From the doorway, she saw the large man’s camouflaged legs stuck out from behind the steel counter. In the next moment, a rifle opened fire and the man’s legs kicked, his boots squeaking against the tile.

  She drew back against the wall, heart hammering, not knowing what to do next.

  The weapon clattered on the floor on the other side of the counter.

  “Frank?” she ventured, raising her voice over the rattling fridge unit.

  “Lin?”

  “Are you shot?”

  “I’m okay!”

  “Is he dead?”

  A pause. “If he’s not, he’s a pretty good actor.”

  Pounding down the hall made her jump.

  “Ma’am?” The man in the duster’s voice came from behind the door. The door rattled, shaking the chair.

  “We’ve got a gun!” she shouted at him. “Your friend’s dead!”

  “Who is it, Lin?”

  Linda ignored Frank, her eyes on the door, watching for movement.

  “If you mean Clara’s boy, he wasn’t my friend,” the man said patiently. “I didn’t even particularly like him. Open the door and let’s talk. I like to look a man in the eye when I speak with him. Or her, as the case may be.”

  “You stay away from us!”

  She saw Frank hobble over without the gun, and she jabbed a finger at it repeatedly until he looked down and reluctantly picked it up. He limped over to her side and gripped the doorjamb to hold himself upright.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t open this door for me, I’m gonna have to blow a hole in it, how about that?”

  “You shoot through that door and you’re next!”

  The man said nothing.

  Linda gestured impatiently for the rifle. Frank handed it to her. She hadn’t fired a weapon since the last time her father had taken her to a gun range before she’d met Frank, but there wasn’t much to it beyond point and shoot.

  She aimed it at the door.

  “Linda—may I call you Linda?”

  Frank gave her a look of concern. She supposed they could have gotten their names from Alex or the logbook, but it made no difference. When she didn’t reply, the man continued.

  “Linda, my name is Gary Hill. My friends call me Sarge. Most of my enemies do as well, I suppose.” He chuckled softly. “Now Linda, I know you’re frightened. I know what you saw out there by the cabin. It was a terrible mistake, and it shames me to no end to admit that it happened on my watch. See, he’d meant that bullet for someone else. Someone who’d been fixing to steal something near and dear away from me.”

  Like that makes a difference, she thought, but said nothing.

  “Now I know what you’re thinking. Murder is murder. Well, what one of you has clearly just done to my subordinate proves that’s just not true. There’s murder and there’s protecting what’s yours by rights. Whether it be your life or your livelihood . . . or land your kin have lived on since the Hellgate Treaty of 1859.”

  She turned to Frank. He shook his head in confusion.

  “But this . . . unfortunate incident, let’s say . . . has put me in a bit of a pickle. See, I want to set these fine folks down here free. I want to let you leave here in peace, despite what you just did to Clara’s boy.” He paused. “Trouble is, if I do, you’ll go straight to the police, and my men and I will spend at least a few years in the prison industrial complex, and while we’re indisposed, cowards operating under the employ of the Divided States of America, whose authority I do not recognize, will strip my family of our lawfully owned land.”

  She heard him take a deep breath in and out through his nostrils.

  “I cannot let that happen, Linda. I will not. Hence the dilemma we find ourselves in at the moment. Holding guns on each other through a door.”

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  He let the question sit a moment. “I want your word. That’s all. Your word that when my people walk away from this, you’ll take it no further. What happens here stays here, as the saying goes.”

  Frank nodded eagerly. Linda considered it for only a moment.

  “How are we supposed to trust you? Your one-armed pal just shot a boat he thought I was in. Damage control doesn’t leave room for witnesses, does it?”

  “Ma’am. Take a moment to consider what I could have done while you’ve stood there pointing Jackson’s peashooter at a door. I could have walked calmly downstairs and put a hole the Chinaman’s head and the cook’s. But I did not. That’s not to say I won’t.”

  Frank grabbed for the rifle. Linda jerked it out of his reach.

  “Open the door, Linda,” the man called Sarge said. “Let’s handle this like civilized people. Don’t make me kill these innocent men.”

  With no other choice, she reached for the door handle.

  “Linda, no,” Frank said.

  “What choice have we got, Frank?”

  With no idea how many rounds were left in the clip and how much ammunition this “Sarge” carried, with more ammunition and more men on the way, cutting a deal was the only chance any of them had of getting out of this alive.

  “Do you honestly think they’re going to let us go?”

  She didn’t. But she couldn’t stand by while the man on the other side of the door executed Alex and the cook. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

  “What was the name of that treaty you mentioned, Mr. Hill? Hell something?”

  “Hellgate,” Sarge said.

  Frank could practically hear the smile in his tone.

  “We’re going to draw up a treaty,” Linda said. “Both parties sign. Then we go our separate ways.” She let him consider it. “Agreed?”

  “That sounds more than fair.”

  “I’m opening the door.” Linda reached for the chair. “If you shoot, I shoot.”

  “Understood.”

  Linda grasped the chair, aiming the rifle with her right hand. She knew the shot would go wild if he forced her to fire on him, but she hoped it would at least strike enough fear in him that he’d stagger a few steps down the stairs, maybe even fall if she was lucky.

  She slid the chair out from under the handle.

  The door tore open before she could react. It struck the rifle and sent the thing flying out of her hand. Sarge kept on charging, slamming into her and driving her to the floor.

  She saw Frank lurch tow
ard the rifle in the split second before Sarge drove the butt of his revolver into her forehead.

  Frank saw Linda’s eyes flutter shut as she lost consciousness. Crying out in anger, he reached for the rifle.

  Sarge spun the barrel toward Linda’s forehead, chrome gleaming under the hallway lights.

  Frank froze, his whole body trembling with fear and adrenaline.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Sarge rose from his knees, keeping the revolver leveled at Linda.

  “You made a fucking deal,” Frank said.

  The man in the duster sneered. “Tell it to your Congressman.”

  11 — Right Place, Wrong Time

  Frank hobbled down the stairs at gunpoint, holding the handrail to steady himself.

  “It truly shames me I was forced to strike your wife,” the man in the duster said at his back. “Especially as there are few things I find sexier than a lady with a gun.”

  Frank gritted his teeth and continued down the steps. One of his stitches had popped, and he was babying his leg, walking on the ball of his foot, hoping the other stitches would hold. The stone floor felt cool as he limped to the end of a short hall lined with wood wine racks stained red. He eyed bottles of various shapes and colors in individual cubbyholes. He considered using them as weapons, but Sarge prodded him with the gun barrel, urging him forward.

  In the main cellar, several corked wooden barrels stood alongside more wine racks, every bottle gleaming in the yellow glow of several wall sconces, not a speck of dust on anything. No sign of Alex or the cook either.

  A heavy wooden door with a round window at head height stood at the far end of the room. Sarge slipped past and opened it, revealing a sauna carved jaggedly out of the bedrock and a wood-paneled heater stacked with black rocks at the center of the room.

  Alex and the cook sat slumped against the wood benches, beaten to the point of unconsciousness. Sarge and his thugs had left them gagged and tied at the wrists and ankles.

  Frank shook his head. “You guys really fucked up, didn’t you? I mean, you shit the bed.”

  Sarge pushed the muzzle into the meat between Frank’s shoulder blades. “Was it Lincoln who said a man shouldn’t crack wise with a gun at his back?”

  “Sounds more like Yosemite Sam.”

  The man in the duster chuckled. “Have a seat beside the Chinaman.”

  “His name is Alex.”

  “Sit.”

  Frank gripped the wall and eased down onto the stone floor. Sarge reached into one of the large pockets and threw a pair of handcuffs in Frank’s lap.

  Frank picked them up and dangled them in front of his eyes. “You know I heard you militia guys had a thing for dildos, but I didn’t know you were this kinky.”

  “Put them on,” Sarge grunted.

  Frank snapped the cuffs onto each of his wrists. “You know what I don’t understand? Why don’t you just kill us all now and get it over with? I mean that’s how this ends, isn’t it? There’s no way Linda and me are gonna walk out of here. Why beat around the bush?”

  Sarge got down on his haunches and fixed him with his blue eyes, his freckled cheeks and nose riddled with pockmarks. As he came closer, Frank noticed the kerchief tied around his neck like an ascot, only slightly redder than his goatee.

  “Much as you might think my men and I are cold-blooded murderers, Frank, killing a man is always a last resort.” His eyes narrowed. “We’re not bad men. Colby, Clara’s boy, and I, we’re freedom fighters.”

  “So is it ironic that you’re keeping people hostage, or are you just plain fucking stupid?”

  Sarge smiled bitterly. “What’s that Dr. John song? ‘Right Place, Wrong Time’?’ Any other weekend, you and your wife would have had yourself a relaxing time in the beautiful wilds of northwest Montana. The fishing out at the old place is a real treat. I once caught a brookie the size of my—”

  Eyes twinkling, he paused and looked over the two badly beaten men. “I’m being disrespectful. Now is not the time for fishing stories. Mr. Moffat, what you and your lovely wife have found yourself caught up in is a decades’-old battle between a group of sovereign citizens and a violent, oppressive regime.”

  “Lucky us.”

  The man began to tie Frank’s ankles. “That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there. I noticed it before, but it looks much more serious up close. I don’t approve of forced vaccinations, but I sincerely hope you’ve had your tetanus shot.”

  Frank didn’t reply.

  Sarge tied the final knot so tight it cut off circulation, then stood. “Now should I carry your wife down, or would the two of you prefer separate accommodations?”

  “If you hurt her again, I swear to God—”

  “Are you a God-fearing man, Moffat? Seems to me you liberal types are all atheists these days.” Sarge awaited Frank’s reply. Receiving none, he nodded and headed for the door. “I’ll get your wife.”

  “What did you do with Teri Lumley?”

  Sarge stopped in the doorway. “The brunette with the model good looks? She’s at the homestead. My wife and sons are taking good care of her. Don’t you worry.”

  His spurs jingled as he ambled around the corner and up the stairs.

  Frank began to work at the knot around his ankles.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Alex’s face was so battered he could barely open his eyes. “They’ll kill you if you run, Frank. Just like they did to Maria Luisa.”

  Frank gave up on the knot, tied too tight, and started trying to pull his hands free of the cuffs. “Who are these people?”

  “The Hill family owns most of the land surrounding the lodge,” Alex said. His busted nose whistled as he exhaled. “The guy with the hat, Gary Hill, he’s been trying to scare us off for years. Says our ‘people’ have a bogus claim on this property, that his grandfather’s crooked lawyer sold it to Dr. Kaspar illegally. I don’t know about that, but I’ve seen the deed, and it has Heinrich’s name on it.”

  “They killed Neville over a land dispute?”

  Alex shrugged up his shoulders and winced from the pain. “I guess so. I didn’t even see what happened until they made me delete the videos. They saw you and Linda were in Dr. Kaspar’s old cabin, and that’s when the one with the beard hit me with his gun. When I woke up, I was tied up down here with Mathias.”

  The cook, Mathias, breathed deeply, either unconscious or sleeping.

  “The guy with the beard—he’s dead.”

  Alex’s eyebrows rose. Blood from a wound on his forehead trickled down his cheek. “After what he did to Maria Luisa, I can’t say I’m upset. Did you—?”

  Frank nodded solemnly.

  “Good. If I had the chance, I might have killed him myself.”

  Sarge’s spurs jingled as he clomped down the stairs. Frank stopped working on the handcuffs and assumed a relaxed position. Alex eased himself back against the wine rack with a slight grimace and shut his eyes, faking unconsciousness.

  Boot falls on the stone floor echoed in the outer room. When Sarge appeared around the corner, he had Linda slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He stepped into the sauna, lowered her gently onto a bench, and rolled her onto her side.

  “You made quite a mess of Clara’s boy.” Sarge stood back and gave Frank a look of admiration. “Color me impressed. He’d always been a bit of a dullard, truth be told. Lazy too. I suppose I’d always assumed someone would get the upper hand on him someday. Just not today.” He uttered a bitter chuckle. “That’s about as good a eulogy as the boy earned.”

  He began to draw a length of yellow rope from the duster’s deep pocket, like a magician’s trick, until its frayed end dangled. “I suppose you’ve heard the expression ‘quick draw,’ and I’ve no need to impress upon you the fact that if you mess with me while I tie up your wife, the two of you will be dead before I even break a sweat.”

  Frank nodded.

  “Good.” The man knelt and bound Linda’s legs like a rodeo calf roper, the ny
lon making zip zip zip noises as he looped and tied. With the same rope, he tied her hands taut behind her back and positioned her so she faced Frank.

  Linda’s hair hung in her face, but Frank could see the large welt already forming on her forehead and a slash along her left eyebrow trickling blood down her cheek.

  She seemed to be breathing fine. He was glad for that at least.

  Sarge hunkered down in front of him and held out the handcuff key. “I want those cuffs put round behind you.”

  Frank raised his hands.

  Sarge unlocked the right cuff. “Round the back.”

  Frank did as he was told.

  “Scooch over. Now you kick me while I’m down here and I’ll empty this cylinder on the rest of these folks and save the last dance for you.”

  The man eyed him until he seemed certain Frank would comply, and he reached behind him to cuff his other hand. When he’d finished, he stood and looked down with a self-satisfied half smile crooking his goatee.

  “Are you aware how many civil liberties you’ve signed away to these people?” Sarge rummaged in a pocket and drew out several folded sheets of paper. “‘The Participants release the Examiners from all liability and waive the right to sue in the case of injury, loss of personal property, or accidental death.’“ He looked up from the contract with an expression of incredulity. “How desperate were you to sign this? Did you even read it?”

  Alex’s nose whistled in the silence.

  Sarge glanced at the concierge before raising an eyebrow at Frank. “This place is some kind of marriage counseling retreat, is that right?”

  Frank nodded.

  “So you paid these people an ungodly sum just to have your head shrunk for a weekend? Have yourself a pedicure?” He gestured toward the surrounding stone walls. “Maybe take a steam? Let me guess: this was the wife’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  The man smirked. “You know this place used to be a government facility? Or did they neglect to mention that? Got rid of everything but the cameras, from the look. The lodge wasn’t always here either. When I was a boy, there used to be a big, gray windowless building stood right here. You know.” He winked, grinning. “The kind of place with something to hide.”