We had just come out of that opening, and I was working right along the stream bank, when I saw them, deeply cut into the snow, emerging half frozen at the water's edge. Ahead of me, the accumulation on the puckerberry had been brushed off. I whistled softly. Griff and Kurant stopped. I pointed downward. I took the radio and hit the transmitter button twice to alert the others.
"I've got his tracks," I whispered into the radio, fighting against the pressure forming like deep water around me.
Nelson came back immediately. "Where?"
I could see them all staring at their radios, waiting for my response. The killer was ahead of us somewhere in the broad loop of the lasso Nelson had laid out. They were waiting to hear how close he was, how close confrontation might be.
"We're less than a mile from the pond," I said. "He came in by this feeder stream. It's the one wearing the wave-sole boots. He's heading almost due east."
Get in behind him, Diana," Nelson said. "Keep Kurant and Griff close. And I want to hear what he's doing every two minutes."
"Okay."
Cantrell came on. "First chance is our best chance. After this, he'll know we're hunting him."
I got on the track, paralleling it so as not to disturb his sign. I noted with grudging admiration the way he threaded himself, calculated and soft, between the tendril trunks of the streamside growth. I found where his wolf-skin hat had brushed through snow clinging to limbs and left hairs when he'd looked left and right. I found where he'd knelt to scout the terrain ahead. I found three holes where his fingers had probed the snow. He was examining everything, even the consistency of the surface below him. He was a good hunter, no doubt about it. The next thought turned me jittery, bloated and cramped inside; he was stalking us. even as we stalked him. Any mistake meant . . .
I shook it off. I could not think of him as a hunter. That could dull resolve. I thought of him as game. Game to be respected. Even feared. But game nonetheless.
The trick to writing a good piece of computer software is to anticipate the pitfalls and snafus that might thwart a user, leaving her frozen at the keyboard, wondering where she went wrong in the electronic wilderness. The same is true of executing a hunt.
I thought ahead as I moved on the track, allowing my memory of the topographical map and my general knowledge of how the killers had moved in the past to draft scenarios as to how this one might act as he approached the beaver pond. The watercourse was his ally as well as his path. But soon he'd have to abandon it. Maybe he'd circle the pond to the north and run into Nelson or Cantrell. Or maybe he'd leave the stream bottom to cut crosswind toward the lake and those who pressed at us from the south.
We were now no more than four hundred yards from the beaver pond. The wind died. The forest took on a deep and abiding stillness that closed in around me.
The radio crackled with voices. Where was he? they were asking, Our noose was tightening. He had to be right up ahead. But there'd been no sightings. Against the back wall of all of this played the image of a nocked arrow.
I was racking my brain to devise new scenarios, when he did something I didn't expect. The track in front of me stopped. Completely. Just as it had the night I found Patterson.
I stared at the last footprint, unbelieving. It came in around me then, the same sort of electric pressure I'd felt anticipating the appearance of the bear so many years ago. I snapped my head and my gun skyward, looking into the gaps between the tree limbs around us. I felt exposed, vulnerable, trapped. "He's here!" I hissed to Kurant and Griff.
"Get down!"
They threw themselves in the snow. They backed up
against the trunks of larch trees, searching the forest canopy. No movement. No sound. Just our throttled breath struggling through clenched teeth. And the flicker of snowflakes. And the call of scrub jays and magpies.
The radio buzzed. I reached to turn down the squelch.
My hand was halfway to my hip when a branch high in a towering jack pine to Kurant's left wavered. Fourteen inches of snow poured off. The reporter swung his shotgun and fired at the white cascade. Three times the roar plugged off all other sound. More snow fell. A severed branch plunged to earth. I swung my rifle to the spot where Kurant had shot, safety off, fighting to see the man shape.
But there was no man. There was only the collapsing comprehension that our emotions and our will were being sucked off into the black hole created by the shotgun blast, by the loss of the track and by the knowledge that the killer had heard the shot and now had our position plotted.
The radio chattered. Earl. Then Phil and Cantrell, followed by Nelson ordering everyone to be silent.
"Diana?" he demanded. "Diana Jackman, please call in. Diana?"
I could not reach for the radio. I had become a squirrel in the shadow of a hawk, turned to stone in the conviction that wings had been trimmed to dive. A minute passed. And then another.
"Diana?" Nelson called.
"C'mon, woman," Phil said. "Just hit the transmit button if you're okay."
Finally my fingers moved. I struck the button.
"How about that!" Cantrell said. "Tell us where you are. Tell us if you need help.”
Kurant's head turned. Blood trickled down his chin. His lip was split. And glowing across his cheek was a great red welt from where the butt of the ill-shouldered gun had smacked him.
"He's not here," Kurant said dully.
"Don't be so sure," Griff called back. "He could be playing with us."
"Oh, he's toying with us," I said.
I got the radio finally and managed to give Nelson our position and tell him we were all right. He barked orders to the rest of them to move in our direction.
I slipped the radio back into the holster, then whispered to Kurant and Griff to cover me. I wanted another look at that last track before the others arrived and obliterated the sign.
I crawled to the footprint and studied it from six inches away. He had remarkable skills. Ordinarily when an animal sets its feet back in its own track, there is a stark indication of a rolling weight in the imprint and a brushing at the edges that enlarges the volume of the sign. Here, there was the barest reflection of his rearward movement. He'd gone backward in his tracks in this nearly perfect manner for fourteen paces. It dawned on me that he was acting just like a mature white-tailed buck would when it figures out it's being pursued. My stomach went to cramps again.
I circled toward the stream and found crust from splashed water forming on the powder snow; he must have jumped sideways a good eight feet and landed in the shallows. I leaned out into the stream to study the overhanging branches. About fifteen feet ahead was a limb devoid of snow where he'd passed and bumped his shoulder.
I frowned.
"What's going on?" Griff asked behind me.
"He knows we're after him," I said, more to myself than to Griff. "Yet he's going forward in a situation where a deer would probably have circled to the rear. It doesn't make sense."
And then it hit me. He wasn't acting like a deer. He was acting like a big cat or a wolf, like a predator. He'd wanted us to freeze like squirrels when the track suddenly ended. He was hoping for a panicked response like Kurant's shot to give away our position and perhaps the positions of the others.
I yanked at the radio in the holster. The antenna caught in my belt. I tore at it, jerking it free finally. I fumbled with the squelch and brought it to my mouth.
"Nelson. Nelson, this is Diana. Tell everyone to—"
I jumped nearly a foot at the deafening explosion of the large-bore rifle somewhere ahead of me in the forest. Another shot, followed immediately by the unmistakable flat punch of metal striking flesh.
I was running forward now. Earl's high-toned voice came over the radio. "I got him! Hound dogs! I finally got him!"
Nelson came on. "Where? Earl, where are you?"
"I'm down below the . . ."
The transmission stopped. There was a split second of silence. I waited for him to finish.
> Instead, I heard a sound burst from deep inside a man accustomed to being in control, to having things go his way. It came from three hundred yards off to my left. But the way the forest carried the sound, it changed its shape and appeared before me like a cornered animal. It pulsated, baritone and guttural at first, then broke over into a savage falsetto wail that could have shattered crystal . . . only to be cut off by a third rifle shot.
Another long silence. And then Lenore's trembling voice crackled. "Please . . . oh, please, help us . . . don't let it be like this . . . please don't let it be like this . . ."
Lenore Addison sat in the snow in a weed patch in an old burn of perhaps half an acre. The browned seed crowns of the buck brush wafted in the bitter wind and brushed her face. She had her husband's head in her lap. Her expression had never seemed so loving. Earl gazed in the direction of the crumpled form of the biggest white-tailed buck I've ever seen in any magazine or book.
Earl was moaning: "It burns. It burns, Lenore. But look at him, sweet thing. Just look at my Booner."
Lenore stroked his face and cooed to him: "He's the prince of the forest, my little man. You did real good."
"But my legs won't move. How can I drag him to camp if my legs won't move?"
She looked up at us, tears streaming down her face. Her tough, manicured facade was gone. She was that dusty unsure girl from some backwater in Texas brush country now.
"He's all I've got. What am I gonna do?"
Arnie and Phil emerged through thick spruces that rimmed the south side of the burn. Arnie took one look and rushed to Earl. "Hold him still," he told Lenore. "We don't want more damage than has already been done."
Phil took off his orange knit cap. His skull glistened with sweat. "What the fuck? I thought he shot the dude."
"That's not important right now, man," Arnie snapped.
Phil kicked at a stump. "We had him!"
"My father was a doctor," I said, kneeling next to Arnie. "I've helped in emergencies before."
Arnie nodded. "Hold him while I cut away his clothes."
The cedar shaft and the exquisite turkey-feather fletching jutted from Earl's parka low in the center of his back, just above his pelvis. Arnie drew out his hunting knife and sliced at the clothing around the shaft. The fabric tugged at the arrow once and a shudder went up through Earl and he screamed and then retched. I held Earl tighter while Arnie trimmed away the last of the wool shirt. The arrow was exposed now, and from the length of the shaft showing above his flesh, the broadhead had not penetrated deeply. There was very little blood, but it had obviously struck spine and done its work.
"Earl," Arnie said after a few minutes of palpating the area. "You've been hit bad, but not as bad as it could have been. The arrow looks to be just above the first lumbar vertebra, which means your legs may not move right now, but, depending on the damage, they may in time. And you won't lose your bowel or bladder control. The important thing right now is to get you stabilized and back to the camp. Do you understand?"
Earl let out a muffled "yes." By then, Cantrell, Butch and Sheila, and Theresa and Nelson had come into the burn.
Cantrell took one look and cried: "I knew this was a dumb idea. I knew it."
"It's my fault," Lenore whimpered.
"What happened?" Kurant asked. He had a notebook out of his pocket.
"Can't you give it a rest?" I asked. "Her husband's wounded."
"No!" Lenore said. "I want to tell him . . . I want to tell him what I did. There's a big knob back there in the woods and we were coming up to it when we heard the shot . . . and Diana said she'd lost the track. But then we jumped this deer on the face of the knob and I knew it was a record-book buck, what Earl's been after his whole life. I told him we'd have to split up, and I'd try to drive the deer to him."
"I wanted to, sweet thing," Earl whispered. "Not your fault. I wanted to."
"I cut to my right about seventy-five yards and let him out of my sight," she continued. "I found the deer's tracks again about a hundred yards further on. He was trying to circle the far end of the knob, pushing crosswind toward Earl. I'd gone only another fifty feet when I came on a man's footprints alongside the buck's. I guess he'd seen the deer, too, and decided to run with it. I sprinted, trying to find Earl . . . to warn him . . . but before I could yell, he shot. And I thought, It's all right. Earl's shot the killer. It's all right . . ."
She paused, her lower lip quivering. "And then Earl, he screamed that awful scream. And when I could see through the brush into this opening, Earl was facedown next to the deer and that bastard was running toward him with a knife out, the wolf skin trailing off his shoulders like wings. I knew what he wanted and I was not going to let him have it. I went right at him. He heard me breaking branches coming in and he changed directions so fast, you know . . . going inside out on himself like he wasn't human, but . . . I don't know . . . an animal or something . . . I got one shot at him and I missed . . . I . . . I never miss."
She broke down and sobbed. Theresa went and put her arms around Lenore's quaking shoulders. Earl's gloved hand stroked at her leg.
Lenore, I—"
"Clippers," Arnie said, interrupting him. "Anybody got pruning clippers in their packs?"
"My leatherman tool's got a little saw," Nelson offered.
"It'll have to do," Arnie said. He took the tool from the guide and opened it to the saw. He got some alcohol from a first-aid kit in his pack and drenched the saw and the wound.
Cantrell and Nelson held Earl's legs. Kurant and Griff got him by the shoulders. Lenore cradled her husband's head. Phil walked to the west fifty yards or so, unable to watch. Butch looked off into the snowflakes falling. Sheila knelt next to me and at Arnie's direction helped pack snow around the wound. I gripped the shaft. I tried to let my hand float with Earl's breath. When he was convinced the flesh was numb, Arnie set the saw's teeth into the arrow about a half inch above Earl's back. The saw made a grinding noise at the first bite. Earl went white, dry-heaved, then passed out.
Arnie worked in time with Earl's breathing, too. He let the teeth bite on the exhale and free on the inhale. Bits of red wood flared into the air.
I watched the saw work in a failed attempt to keep my mind off the fact that I hadn't read the sign clearly. We'd had our best chance and one of us had been crippled. The killer was putting ground between us. If we were to go after him, it would have to be soon, or the wind and snow would obliterate his tracks and leave us as ignorant and as vulnerable as we'd been setting out this morning. In any case, he knew clearly he was being hunted now. And he'd tell his partner. And that made them even more dangerous than before.
The shaft broke free. Now there was just a nub of wood showing from Earl's back. The snow had reduced the swelling. The three blades of the broadhead were visible against the purpling flesh.
I stared at the blades and the way they formed a Y under Earl's skin. An intersection of pain and mad purpose that I couldn't begin to comprehend.
Arnie had Phil and Butch cut saplings to form the braces and support limbs for the ribwork of a stretcher. Cantrell took drag ropes and articles of clothing from each of us. He lashed the limbs to the saplings, then cut holes in the clothes and tied them in the gaps. Arnie got smaller saplings and strapped them lengthwise along Earl's body to keep it ridged, to minimize the damage.
When the litter was complete, we all slid our hands under Earl and lifted him onto the stretcher.
"We're going to have to hurry," Arnie said. "He's going into shock."
"Can that broadhead stay in there until the plane comes?" Sheila asked.
Arnie didn't respond.
"Arnie?" Butch said. "That's six days."
"Operating could open him to more infection," Arnie said, "but depending on how he responds to the medicine, we might have to."
"You gonna cut him out here?" Phil cried. "Damn."
Lenore crossed her arms across her chest. "You're no surgeon. I want a second opinion."
Arn
ie shook his head. "There are no second opinions here. Just me. And I'm not going to do it unless I have to."
"Arnie, you can't . . ." Butch began.
"Shut up, Butch." Arnie cut him off. "I may be a smalltime pediatrician to you, but I'm the only doctor you got. I'll make the call on this one."
We all looked at Earl for a moment.
"Well, what about the mother who did this?" Phil demanded. "We've got to go after him now, before he gets away."
"No!" Cantrell said. "We tried that and look what's happened."
Kurant said, "We probably would have had him if Earl hadn't gotten horny to kill some innocent animal and forgotten we were out here to capture a murderer."
"You asshole!" Lenore screamed. She raced at the journalist and pummeled at his head.
Nelson grabbed her and pulled her away. Cantrell got in the writer's face. "I've had enough of you and your smartguy remarks. All you've done since you've been here is do your best to stir up trouble."
Kurant sort of smirked. "Am I wrong? If I'm getting the facts wrong, tell me."
Cantrell gritted his teeth so hard I thought he'd break enamel. "Fuck you!"
"Anybody ever compliment you on your agile command of the language?"
The outfitter's punch caught Kurant square in the solar plexus. He made an ooomph noise in disbelief, then reared backward into the snow. No one moved to help him.
"C'mon!" Arnie cried. "We need to get Earl back to the lodge. He's going into shock."
Cantrell was all business now. He pointed at Phil and Butch. "You guys get the front. Griff and Nelson are at the back."
Nelson cleared his throat. "Mike . . . Phil's got a point, eh? Now, hold on before you get crazy on me. This killer has made big mistakes the last couple days, missing Phil and wounding Earl. He's losing control. He'll make more mistakes. I want to take Diana and track him out of here."
"No way," Cantrell said. "I can't have any more clients wounded or dead."
I stepped forward. "We won't try to close in on him, Mike. It's only a scouting mission, try to figure out where he goes when he leaves. If we don't go after him now, the snow's going to fill his tracks and we'll be right back where we were."
The Purification Ceremony Page 16
