“That’s better,” Jessie said. “Just a few hundred more times and I’ll be satisfied.”
“Just … don’t let your imagination run so wild,” Evie said.
“You know I’m a worrier.”
“Nothing awful will happen to me. I mean, look around; this place is pretty dull most of the time.”
“What about that cousin of yours,” Jess said with a grin. “What’s his situation?”
“No,” Evie said flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean no, it’s not in the cards. Forget it.”
Jess crossed her arms and resumed sulking.
“Weren’t you seeing someone anyway?”
“No one special. He’s confident but not cocky. How often do we find a guy that’s got that plus looks?”
“That confidence is a family thing,” Evie said.
Jess frowned the most pathetic frown she could muster.
“Okay,” Evie said, “I’ll tell you what: if you can’t find Mr. Perfect at college, then I’ll allow it. You can move right up here after school and tackle Matthew. I guarantee he’ll still be here and most likely available.”
“Sure he will.”
“Hey, it’s hard to find a girl in a town where you’re related to half of them, and the other half are your friends’ sisters.”
“You always find hope in any situation,” Jessie said. She hugged Evie with a near death grip. “What am I gonna do without you?”
~7~
Lars stepped quietly into Mrs. McCall’s place. It wasn’t the sound that he feared would tip her off, it was the reverberation of a heavy step or a slamming door. Peering cautiously around the corner, with one eye he could see her in her chair. The TV was blaring as usual. She was sound asleep.
Up the creaky old stairs he moved as carefully as if moving through enemy occupied territory. Dealing with her was out of the question at that point. He had enough on his mind as it was.
In his room he removed Mrs. McCall’s cat from his small stack of clean clothes he’d placed on a bookshelf. No matter where he’d tried to stack his clothes—the rocking chair, the corner of the bed—inevitably the cat would end up there, leaving a layer of orange hair on his clean duds. Men who have gone many days, or weeks, without clean clothes appreciate their clean ones more than those of the 9 to 5 lifestyle. And the old woman refused to leave the bedroom door closed, owing to the concern of the room getting too “chilly.”
He set the cat down in the hall. The cat stood with arched back, glaring back at him.
“You don’t want any part of me,” he warned quietly, giving it a soft shove with his boot tip. “Get lost.”
He closed the door and moved to the little desk in the corner. The materials for making ammunition were spread out in an organized fashion, both on the desk and on the nearby windowsill. He found it comforting to set his hands to familiar work that required little concentration. I wonder who the old man thinks I am, he thought. I never claimed any high-level intelligence experience, and I claimed only to enjoy mysteries, not to be one who solved them. I’m a shooter, not a detective. A doer, not an intellectual.
In addition to the frustration, there was a small but noticeable level of pride at work within him. The old man was special; that was beyond question. It was doubtful that someone so capable would share such information with just anyone, let alone trust their judgment and expect their assistance. But I’ve never had any dealings with any of the big contractors, he thought. I’ve made a living wearing boots, not flight suits. I operate the weapons they design. I do the dirty work while they meet and plan wearing suits and ties. How the hell am I supposed to guess which one could be tied to this little place?
“Think,” he said aloud. “Who tests on animals?” Who runs those labs that rub shampoo in puppies’ eyes all day? Who studies cancer and disease in animals and could also obtain such an advanced drone for spying? Who would have all these capabilities and vested interests and close ties? Who the hell paid to send me here in the first place? Why didn’t you ever look into it before? Because the money was good, that’s why. Who sent the men I came looking for years ago? Who sent me back again, when my specialty was assassination, to do recon and surveillance on a damned pack of sharp-toothed dairy farmers?
At last Lars slammed his fists onto the desk in frustration. He looked at his watch. A measly half an hour had passed. In the background the TV was still blaring. Rising, he took his rifle from behind the door, put it over his shoulder, and crept down the stairs like a jewel thief.
***
At the foot of the stairs Lars turned softly toward the kitchen. Peering back over his shoulder toward the living room, he could just see the corner of Mrs. McCall’s favorite chair. The TV was blaring some classical music via Public Television. He exhaled slowly as he faced the kitchen, taking a step in that direction. Then at once he stopped himself short.
The tiny woman was less than a yard in front of him. One full stride more, and he’d have run her clean over. “Oh, hello,” she said, looking up at him, smiling her gummy smile. Her glasses were bent beyond belief.
“Damn it, woman!” he exhaled through gritted teeth. His heart was pounding with startled fury, his hand automatically moving for his sidearm. “I might have killed you just now. Can’t you make some noise when you walk?”
“Tea?” she said, holding her own steaming cup. “Hits the spot on a chilly autumn day.”
“I’d rather drink tepid sludge from a pig trough,” he said in a normal tone, smiling down at her as he spoke. “No, thank you,” he shouted. “I just need a snack to take with me.”
“What sack?” the old woman asked, cocking her head curiously. “You don’t mean the potatoes?”
“No, no.” Lars shook his head. “A quick snack!”
“The television is on, dear. You’ll have to speak up.”
“Yes, it’s always on. And I’m going to empty a clip into that thing one day,” he said, smiling. “Blow it clear to hell. How does that sound?”
“Well, you must be hungry,” presumed Mrs. McCall. “For such an active young man, I never see you eat,” she said, poking a bony finger into his abdomen. “Or drink your tea, for that matter.” She shook her head at the absurdity of the idea.
Lars nodded impatiently. If a man had poked him like that, he would have broken his nose at the very least. “I am hungry. Unfortunately, you have more cat food in the house than anything else. And by the way, if I find that thing sleeping on my clothes again, I’ll skin it and cook it over my campfire.”
“It was my husband’s,” she replied with a confused expression. “But I don’t think he’d mind your using it. Just make sure to bring it back when you’re finished.”
“Good God, have mercy,” Lars exhaled. “I’d rather be fed to those wolves than ever reach your age. Do you know that?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Help yourself, dear boy.” She patted his arm as she shuffled by toward the living room. “Pardon my rudeness, but I believe I’m missing my show.” She looked back before she sat down, raised her hand, pointed at him, and as if he was a twelve-year-old, sternly admonished him to be careful hunting.
“I always am,” Lars shouted, thinking, oh to hell with it. I’ll get some chow over at the diner, after I’ve gotten some work done.
I don’t know about him, the old woman thought, stirring her tea as Lars exited the house. All that time hunting and never a scrap of meat to show for it. It’s good of old Joe to help him out like this. Poor lad needs all the help he can get.
***
In the woods at his little campsite Lars felt more at ease. The chatter of squirrels and the dropping of acorns and leaves were a welcome exchange compared with that TV. Leaning back against a wide tree trunk, he took his new phone from his pocket and sat with his legs stretched comfortably.
“Nazi’s,” he whispered, and almost began to laugh. They get the blame, or credit, for every major development of the last century: t
he rocket, the jet and the stealth planes, and all those damned fine cars. So the old man wants me to go there, to follow that trail, from Maine to Europe, and back to the states post war. What other leads have I got?
He brought up the phone’s browser, remembering the day Joseph had given him the new device. He had assured him that their local online activities were safe, as he’d acquired some sort of specialist to remotely monitor everything. Lars made no attempt at pretending to understand. Technology was far from his specialty.
“Who wants them?” he asked himself. Who, in these times, with all that’s going on in the world, would still pursue the fantastic and the supernatural? I agree that the Nazis would have been interested, but that was a very long time ago. I know the CIA conducted some brazen experiments to explore the possibilities of mind control. The Soviets were said to have studied the prospect of crossing humans with apes to make a stronger soldier. But that was all back in the day. God only knows what they’re up to now.
For a moment he took the tiny dragonfly drone from his shirt pocket. He was no less amazed each time he laid eyes on it. The DOD wants only technology these days, he thought. Humans, even the best, have proven too fallible. The desire is to do everything remotely. You know what that means, don’t you? Yes. Men like you will soon be worthless.
“Stop,” Lars told himself. Stay on track. This is about them, not you. You like them, don’t you? I do. I’m amazed and would like to see them left to live their lives without trouble. They sure don’t go around looking for trouble, and to be left alone is certainly not a lot to ask of the world. They caught you trespassing, armed—spying on them on their own land. Who else ever caught you? No one. Never. That’s right. You’re lucky to be alive at all, aren’t you? Yes. So now it’s time to earn your keep. Good. You know where you stand and you know where they stand. So get to it. Do what you can do. Help them. Now, what else is there?
“There are spiritual forces at work,” Joseph had once told him. “Whatever they seek to gain from us is without hope. The secret is not laid bare in our blood; it is one that enters our being, our minds, at will.”
Lars put the drone back into his pocket. Spiritual forces, eh? Well that sure narrows it down. What do you know of any of it? Very little. Just that he seems to be closer to the Native Americans in that regard than the Europeans. But still that’s not my arena. Leave it. Leave it for the old man.
He gave his attention to the phone. He brought up the keyboard. His finger hovered over the letters. It has to be a private lab, he thought. Perhaps a contractor that dabbles in multiple arenas of study and development. The old man suspects a link to his old enemies. His senses are far beyond mine. How can I come up with a better idea? I agree completely that there seems to be some level of obsession involved. What else would account for the situation?
Half an hour’s worth of searching yielded absolutely nothing of interest. The nearest topic was the actual account of a young woman being killed in a rare animal attack. He’d heard enough of that. And he’d seen enough of it written on the kid’s, David’s, face. And besides, it hadn’t appeared to make national news anyway.
Lars put the phone back in his pocket. He was not used to being ineffective. Not in the least. But then again, he wasn’t accustomed to identifying his own targets either. Targets were presented to him. Or at the least, locations.
Looking up through the trees, he focused on the colors of the leaves as the afternoon sun shone through them. About half of the leaves had fallen and half still clung to the branches. Picturesque, he thought. Perhaps I’ve outlived my usefulness. Maybe I’d have better luck trying my hand at poetry, like old Mr. Frost. This place sure stirs you up.
“Fiction,” Lars muttered. Try approaching it from that angle. Isn’t the villain always acquainted in some way? Tied in with them in some way? That would explain the old man’s theory. Then again, it could also be a guilty conscience. He was in a tough spot with that woman—the wife. Would you have killed her? I don’t know. I wouldn’t have wanted to. She’d done nothing but marry the wrong man. She sure wasn’t the first to do that. And she had a kid. I suppose you would have had to kill the kid too.
“God,” he muttered, his voice growing weak with drowsiness. It must have been easier to fight in ancient times. Just line up on two sides in a wide open space and go for it. Must have been ugly as hell, but at least it was a straight forward conflict. I can’t even imagine the smell. At least then, that way, no one else got drawn into the mess. Of course they had to clean up after. In a way that must have been worse.
***
It was dusk, after 6 PM, when Lars woke from his nap. He could not remember the feeling of falling asleep, and found it startling to have been asleep and so suddenly awake again. Faint light showed in the sky overhead. All around his camp was dark. He felt cool in just a chamois shirt.
A sound suddenly drew his attention to the left, which was the south corner of the campsite. Reaching for his rifle slowly, where it was propped against the tree, as he turned his head he heard a name whispered from the shadows. It was his name. Or rather, the name he had formerly used.
“Spencer. Mr. Spencer.”
“Who is it?” Lars asked, taking hold of his rifle, straining to see in the low light.
“Stand down, Mr. Spencer,” the voice said, as slowly the heavily camouflaged man stepped forward. He was decked out like Special Forces, complete with a camera on his helmet. “I’m friendly,” he said, his rifle pointed at Lars. “I’m here to search and recover, and bring you out if I find you alive.”
“Are you?” Lars replied, trying to come to grips with what was happening. His eyes were jumping from the man to all corners of the campsite, following every sound, expecting any moment to see either another man. Or worse, a wolf waiting to pounce. Carefully he got to his feet, keeping his rifle pointed at the ground. “Who sent you?”
“You know the drill,” the man said. “We take the calls when they come. We do the job and they send the check. We don’t get paid to ask questions.”
“Yeah,” Lars uttered. “How many of you are there?”
“Two. The other is coming down from the north end of town.”
“I hate to tell you,” Lars said. “But this one’s a bust. I’m not looking to be found, so you boys might as well go home. Hopefully you’ll get something for your efforts.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“What’s not possible?”
“I can’t leave you here, sir,” the man said, his rifle sights never wavering from Lars. “My orders are to recover remains or detain if alive. There are no other options.”
“This isn’t a good place, soldier,” Lars said. The words had scarcely left his lips when his attention was drawn to the north corner of the campsite. As silently as phantoms, two wolves emerged from the shadows, practically melting into the small clearing. The old white wolf came first, his color drawing Lars’s attention. Just behind and beside him was the even larger, fire-eyed black wolf.
“To assist us against intruders, you were spared,” Joseph’s voice sounded from the mouth of the white wolf. “Has my confidence been misplaced?”
“N-no.”
“If your only service is to draw in more men, what use have I for you?”
“Now hold on,” Lars said, his eyes darting about as the three closed in on him. “I left no trail coming up here. No one—”
“Kill him!” said the black wolf to Lars, his massive head just feet away. “Prove your allegiance.”
“Get out of here,” Lars shouted to the soldier. The man was backtracking, moving the barrel of his rifle back and forth between the three targets. “They might let you go, if you go now! Kill that camera and—”
“You know we’re not trained to fail,” the soldier said. “You, alive, are my only objective.”
“Boy, you’re gonna end up dead,” Lars warned. “We both are.”
“Choose,” the white wolf spoke over him. He was standing
feet in front of Lars now, inching closer, closer. “My patience is running thin.”
“He’ll choose only what’s best for himself,” said yet another voice.
In disbelief Lars followed the sound to its source. It was Trigs, battered and mutilated, limping into the fray of his nightmare. The soldier took only momentary note of the newcomer. The wolves took none. No! Lars told himself. This isn’t happening. Wake up you fool. Wake up!
“Isn’t that right, old buddy?” the ghost said. “You’re all about looking out for number one. Look what they did to me. And within hours you cut a deal to work for them.”
“Shut up,” Lars muttered. “You dug your own grave.” In his next breath, to himself he shouted, “Wake up!” The soldier was to his left, the monster to his right; sharp tree bark pressed into his back. By nightmare or true experience, he had never been so cornered in his life, so threatened, so torn, so vulnerable. His only thought became the relief of escape.
“Send him away or kill him,” the white wolf ordered.
“Or you both shall die!” roared the black wolf. His mouth opened wide; his great bulk flew at Lars as he moved his finger close to the trigger, raising his rifle as he bent his knees, lowering his stance, letting his weight press back against the tree. Steadying himself and making of himself a shorter target with one movement, he swung the rifle up, fully intending to fire, but still unsure in those fractions of seconds as to who he would fire upon—the man or the massive black monster just inches from snuffing the life from him.
***
With a gasp of cool air filling his lungs, Lars woke to being shaken by a shadowy figure. The sky above was sunset purple, the woods around him dark. Reaching for his rifle in a fit of panic, he kicked at the shadow.
“Easy now,” Ed’s friendly voice said. “Hey, take it easy. That’s one hell of a dream you must be having there, fella.”
“Damn it,” Lars gasped, releasing the rifle from his trembling hand. “I told you not to sneak up on me. I told you that, didn’t I?”
Seasons of Wither (The Great North Woods Pack Book 3) Page 8
