He paused to assess his location. The monastery was now to his left. Farther to his left, several miles away along corkscrew winding turns, was the nearest town, Quentin. He tried to imagine the strategy of the death team. If he was one of two men they'd left behind to check the monastery - he wouldn't want to be camping in the woods. Too damp and cold. He'd want a dry, warm place in which to sleep and change, clothes and get something to eat while his partner took his turn on the hill. But he'd also want mobility, the chance to leave the area in a hurry if he had to. That combination of requirements suggested a vehicle large enough to hold equipment and a bed - a camper-truck, for example, or a van. And he certainly wouldn't park it where the authorities might drive by. Its probable hiding place would not be along the portion of the road that led toward Quentin. Instead, it would be on the opposite side of the monastery. On Drew's right. Where the road led toward the maple syrup factory, and after that, scenery, little else.
He found a van fifteen minutes later. On the far shoulder of the road, just before a curve would have made it impossible for an occupant to see the entrance to the lane up to the monastery. The position was logical, Drew thought. The only sure sign that I escaped would be a lot of vehicles arriving at the monastery -ambulances, cops, the coroner. Who else could have warned the authorities except a survivor of the killings? As soon as the team felt confident that I wasn't in the area, their back-up pair could pull out. Conversely, the longer the authorities failed to arrive, the more suspicious the team would be that I hadn't escaped.
But he had to verify that the van wasn't parked here simply because of a breakdown or an innocent sleepy driver. He crawled farther through the undergrowth along the road until he faced the rear of the van - no windows along the side but a bubblelike window in back. Ducking to keep from being spotted through that window, he sprinted across the pavement to crouch beside the rear right tire. The convex back window could have been designed to deflect the heat of the sun; on the other hand, it could have been designed to keep an outsider from getting an undistorted view of the interior. Perhaps the window worked only from inside to out; or perhaps it had a pull-down blind. The glass might even be bullet-proof, the body as well reinforced against attack. These possibilities were hypothetical, of course, unverifiable except by assault.
Nonetheless, there was one easy test to find out if a seemingly ordinary vehicle had been designed to go into combat. All Drew needed to do was sink to the pavement and peer beneath the chassis. In the dark, he had to wait for lightning to reflect its gleam off the asphalt, but even with the brief illumination, he saw what he needed. The van had no visible gas tank.
The conclusion was obvious. Mounted inside the back compartment of the van, the fuel tank would be as protected as the vehicle's occupants. There wasn't any question now. He had to believe that the van was armored. To get into it, he'd need a weapon considerably more powerful than a Mauser pistol.
But even Goliath could be defeated. A reinforced vehicle was designed to survive an attack while it was moving. Stopped, it became more vulnerable, especially if the enemy got close to it. He knelt to feel the right rear tire, concluding without surprise that the rubber was extra thick and no doubt layered with metal. A bullet from the Mauser would do little damage, not enough to prevent the driver from speeding away.
The trick was to convince the occupant - already distressed because he couldn't raise his partner on the walkie-talkie - that he had another and more immediate problem: the rain's long-term effect on the gravel shoulder of the road. Even a bullet-resistant tire had to be inflated, or to use that logic in the reverse, it could also be deflated. True, by letting air from the tire, Drew wouldn't be able to drive the van away, but this well-equipped vehicle would surely have a spare.
Feeling along the gravel shoulder, he found what he needed. The van's designer had not anticipated that an attacker could get this close. The caps on the air valves didn't have a lock. Drew hurriedly unscrewed the one on the right rear tire, jammed a chunk of wood inside it, and heard a hiss of air.
The van began to list in Drew's direction, slowly sinking onto the rain-soaked gravel shoulder. He yanked the Mauser from behind his belt at his spine and scurried back to position himself with a good view of the rear door and both doors in front. His tactic was based on the assumption that as the occupant felt the van tilt beneath him, he'd conclude the rain had weakened the road's shoulder to such an extent that the van was sinking into the mud, listing toward the forest.
Would the driver come out to check?
A door banged open.
Drew rolled to the ditch and lay in frigid muddy water, waiting for the driver to check the listing side of the van.
But the driver did something else. Already nervous because he couldn't contact his partner, he bolted. Drew heard footsteps charge across the pavement toward the forest on the other side, and lunged to the top of the ditch. On his stomach, unable to reach the man, he fired the Mauser through the space beneath the van and the road, shifting his aim toward the sound of the rushing footsteps, clustering his bullets.
He heard a groan, a body toppling onto the asphalt. He scrambled to his feet and veered past the van toward the road. He hadn't shot to kill; instead, he'd chosen the legs as a target, needing to subdue the man and get some answers. Who'd ordered the hit? Why had they tried to kill him?
The man crawled awkwardly ahead of him.
A cracking flash from a handgun made Drew dart left. A second shot missed even farther. The man stopped shooting, pivoted forward again, and scuttled farther toward the trees beyond the road. He reached the edge of the pavement. In a moment, he'd be into the ditch and gain the cover of bushes from which to defend himself. Drew had to stop him now.
He sprinted at the man from the side. With no other choice, he kicked the man's forehead and stomped the hand that held the weapon. The man wailed, slumping off the pavement onto gravel, landing hard on his battered forehead. Drew yanked the weapon from his hand and kicked him again. The man groaned, rolling onto the leg that he'd been dragging, where a liquid darker than rain soaked the calf of his jeans. The resulting shriek was louder than that of the wind. The shriek broke, losing its pitch, descending to a moan, then silence.
The man lay still. As much as Drew could tell, he'd passed out from pain and shock. Even so, the next step was risky, for now Drew had to stoop to touch him. If the man was faking unconsciousness, if he had a knife.
Drew bound the arms with the skipping rope from around his waist. Next, he searched the man, not finding any other weapons. Then he grabbed his collar and dragged him across the pavement toward the van, tilting him slightly so that the wounded leg took a lot of stress. He needed to keep applying pain, to make sure the man stayed unconscious. He paused at the driver's door, which the wind had shut (or had it?), and studied the darkness beyond the window. Suppose he was wrong? His calculations had been based on the assumption that two men - and only two - had been left behind by the death team. After all, the fewer the members of the surveillance team, the less chance of drawing attention if the authorities arrived, and two was the minimum for the job. But suppose there was a third man who'd stayed inside, ready to shoot as Drew opened the door.
Standing out of the line of fire, pressed against the side of the van, Drew pointed his Mauser and slowly pulled the driver's door open. As he expected, the interior light did not come on. In the old days, he himself had always unscrewed the interior light of any vehicle he drove, anticipating a night when he might not want to show himself as he got out. But the corollary was that he'd always left a flashlight under the seat where he could get to it in a hurry if he needed it. So many habits of his former profession (former? he asked himself; what do you think you're doing now?) were common practice for everyone in it. That was one advantage when dealing with experts. You worked within a set of rules. The anxiety of the unpredictable came only when you dealt with amateurs.
The flashlight was under the seat where he himself would h
ave left it, rubber-coated, a long, high-powered, four-battery model. Drew pressed the switch and sent its beam toward the back of the van.
No one.
The air inside smelled stale. He saw two sleeping bags on top of two mattresses. One wall held a bank of sophisticated two-way radio equipment. Against the other wall were two open knapsacks with clothes poking out of them, a partly empty pack of Cokes, a naphtha-fueled Primus stove, several cans of Hormel chili, Heinz spaghetti and meatballs, and Armor corned-beef hash. Drew's mouth tasted rancid. Didn't these guys eat anything that didn't contain meat? Beneath the edge of one sleeping bag, the tips of two rifles protruded. There's no place like home.
He leaned back from the van and glanced down through the rain toward the man at his feet. Nudging the wounded leg and getting no response, he confirmed that the man was still unconscious. Only then did he stoop and grab the man's armpits from behind, lifting him to shove him into the back.
He froze when he saw headlights in the distance, two specks getting larger, approaching from the direction of Quentin, passing the lane up to the monastery, continuing this way.
Take it easy, he thought. The lights might pose no danger. Just a late-night motorist trying to stay on the road in this storm.
But what would the motorist think when he or she passed and saw one man pushing the motionless body of another into the van?
Drew shut off his flashlight. Breathing quickly, he tilted the driver's seat forward, shoving the body through the gap between the seat and the door frame. As soon as the man lay in back, he covered him with a sleeping bag, even his head, then leaned in to shift the knapsacks on top, anything to increase the impression of clutter, to disguise the fact that a body lay underneath.
Pivoting, he glanced along the road. The headlights magnified, growing brighter, closer. There wasn't time to scramble inside without looking furtive and arousing suspicion. He didn't want the driver to stop or, worse, become concerned enough to stop in the next town and call the police.
Or what if the car belonged to the people who were after him? If he climbed inside the van, he'd be trapped. He couldn't even drive away since he hadn't changed the deflated tire and he didn't know yet where the key was.
You'd better watch yourself, he thought. It's just a car. Six years out of action have made you paranoid. All the same, in the old days, he remembered, he'd respected the small details.
Needing an acceptable reason to be standing out here, he shut the van door and walked around the hood to face the ditch, then pulled down the fly on his pants. Glancing toward the headlights that were now blinding him, so large they seemed like searchlights, he turned with apparent indifference toward the forest and pretended to urinate. If this car did belong to the death team, he'd have a chance to reach the trees.
The approaching vehicle began to reduce its speed, its headlights gleaming. Drew watched in dismay. It slowed even more. He squinted through the rain and shivered when he saw a rack on the roof of the car. On the rack were two domes.
Oh, swell, he thought. Wonderful.
The police. It was hardly a reprieve. Drew couldn't risk telling them what had happened at the monastery. The first thing a cop would do would be to take him to the station, and after that, the police band on the C.B. radio would be filled with talk. He had to assume that the death team was monitoring transmissions from the area. They'd learn where he was, come for him, and sooner or later they'd get past the cops.
The cruiser stopped beside the van. A spotlight came on, aimed at Drew.
Okay, Drew thought. I've just spent six years in the strictest order of the Catholic Church. I've just survived a multiple hit. I stalked and killed a man. I wounded another man. I tied him up and managed to throw him in the back of this van before the cop arrived. Now let's see if I can do something really hard.
Like urinate.
Increasing pressure on his bladder, he squinted behind his shoulder toward the spotlight, vaguely able to read the words along the cruiser's door: VERMONT STATE POLICE. He contracted his muscles and sighed with mental relief as the liquid flowed.
"You couldn't wait?" a gruff male voice said behind the spotlight.
Drew shook himself and pulled up his fly. Turning, he grinned with feigned embarrassment toward the unseen presence behind the spotlight.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Except for mandatory choir and required responses at daily mass, he hadn't spoken to another human being for the past six years. His only conversation, one-sided, had been with a mouse.
"Couldn't wait? I asked you." The policeman was impatient.
Drew confined to grin with feigned embarrassment. Words formed in his mind, but his vocal cords resisted.
Come on, you know you can talk. Pretend you're responding at mass. His lips and tongue felt thick. "Well - sure -I - hey, when you've got to go, you've got to go."
Amen. His voice sounded hoarse and gravelly.
"Something wrong with your throat?"
Drew shook his head but pretended to cough. "It's just a cold." The words came easier.
"You sound like you'd better see a doctor. Where you headed, into Quentin?"
Drew pretended to be puzzled. "Where?"
"Next town. Twelve miles south. The direction I came from."
"If I'd known a town was that close, I'd have tried to wait to take a leak. This isn't exactly cozy." Drew held out the palm of his hand, collecting rain.
"It's damp all right." The policeman was silent for a moment, unseen behind the spotlight. "You'd better get inside."
Drew coughed again. "Right." But as he turned toward the driver's door on the van, he suddenly wondered if the cop had meant for him to get inside the cruiser. He reached for the latch on the driver's door.
"You didn't tell me where you were headed," the cop said.
"Massachusetts. Down to Boston." Drew waited tensely.
"You're driving late." "
Apparently he'd answered acceptably. "They need me back at the office. I took a fall vacation, hunting up in Canada."
"You get anything?"
"Yeah. This cold."
The policeman laughed. "Well, next time don't stop with your lights off. In this storm, somebody might have come around this bend behind you and - "
"Whacked into me. It's true. I wasn't thinking." Drew coughed. "I guess I just didn't want to advertise what I was doing."
The policeman shut off the spotlight. Drew's eyes relaxed. From the lights on the cruiser's dashboard, he could make out the face - younger and thinner than the husky voice had suggested. "Stay awake, huh?" the cop said. "Keep your eyes on the road."
"You can count on it."
Raising his thumb, the policeman drove away. Drew watched the red specks of his taillights disappear around the bend in the road. He exhaled, leaning against the van. If the man in back had woken up and started making noises...
But what if he'd woken up anyhow and used the time to slip out of the rope, and now he's waiting for me? Drew yanked the door open. Turning on the flashlight, he saw that the heap beneath the sleeping bags wasn't moving. Dead? Had he suffocated?
Drew scrambled in, tugging off the sleeping bags, and relaxed when he heard faint breathing. But the wounded leg was pumping blood. The sleeping bag was soaked with it. He had to hurry. After making sure that the rope still bound the man's arms, he used the man's belt to apply a tourniquet above the bullet wound in the calf of the leg. The blood slowed.
Drew pulled him forward, easing him into the passenger seat, where he propped him into what appeared to be a comfortable position, then secured him across the waist and chest with the safety belt. He didn't want his enemy out of sight behind him, and this way, to a casual observer, the man seemed just a passenger fallen asleep.
Drew searched him, found a ring of keys, and got out in the rain to open the back of the van, looking for a spare tire. In an under-the-floor compartment, he did find a tire, but even better, he found an emergency air pump with a foo
t pedal and a pressure gauge. Five minutes later, he'd reinflated the back right tire. Then, getting behind the steering wheel, he tested several keys until one at last fit the ignition slot. He turned it; the engine started smoothly. But he frowned at the unfamiliar dashboard, the confusing levers and knobs on the steering column, many more than he was used to. The last time he'd driven was in 1979. He had no way of knowing what design changes had been introduced since then. Had the technology altered so much that he might not be able to control the van?
At least the transmission was automatic; he shouldn't have any trouble merely pressing the throttle and steering. But as he put the floor-shift into drive, he realized that he couldn't see through the rain on the windshield, and it took him thirty seconds to figure out that one of the knobs on the turn-signal lever controlled the wipers. A knob on another lever worked the headlights.
Fraternity of the Stone Page 7
