***
An ugly smile spread across Rowan Merrill’s face. “Pleading, you say? You could murder me in seconds. Yet you’re pleading with little old me?”
“Yes,” Joseph said. “I’m pleading for reason. I do not wish you or anyone else any harm. All I ask is to be left in peace. That’s what I’m pleading for. As you yourself said, your grandfather was of an older, narrower world view. But you are not. You are—”
“I know exactly what I am, Mr. Snow. I am one of the few people on this earth that can inflict upon you a threat worthy of your concern. That alone is a small victory for myself, and the memory of my family. I may not see the world precisely as my grandfather did, but I see you quite similarly. I will not allow you to flaunt your power before me, and send me scurrying home as a whipped puppy.”
“Please,” Joseph said in response to the subtle motion of her hand which held the phone.
“Ah,” said the woman, her nasty grin stretching further across her bony face, “I must say, Mr. Snow, this moment, though brief, feels absolutely wonderful. If you could see your own face right now.”
“Those men,” Joseph said. “You will get them all killed if you send them east. And for what? Nothing.”
“If you’ve denied me of what I came for,” she replied, “what do I care? Sheep are easily lost and easily replaced.”
“You spoke of helping the weak and the sick.”
“To hell with the weak and the sick.” she said, her hand just moving. “You said you were tired. Well, I am tired also. You speak of reason, but you will not reason with me. As far as I can tell, you have the rationality of an animal.”
“Neither I nor any others you seek to capture can provide the answers you seek,” he said calmly. “Look into my eyes. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Are you?” she said.
Lars watched her hand moving as she spoke. Her fingers were sliding ever-so-slowly into position over the screen. In his peripheral vision, he waited for the slightest movement of Joseph Snow’s hand—the signal that would end her life.
~18~
The moon had risen over the trees when the two black wolves reached the border of Abel’s farm. They moved through to the pool, drank their fill of the cold water, and then proceeded to the northeastern corner. There they stretched out to rest, their eyes keenly watching the western sky.
“My brother is not well,” Abel said some time later.
Erica lifted her head quickly. She had been half asleep.
“It is strange,” the old one murmured, almost if he was thinking aloud, or talking to himself. “Surely I thought you would have sensed them before myself and dealt with them in some fashion, although I know you live very differently than I, and cannot deal justice as simply and secretly.”
“Are things bad with Ludlow?” Erica asked softly.
“I cannot say,” Abel answered in his normal tone. “Above all else I can sense his dismay, his uncertainty, and most unusual of all … his fear. Fear for us all, not merely for himself.”
“And there’s nothing we can do.”
“Only our best. That is what we will do. The pack has not sought us out with any messages. From that I can assume that no news from Ludlow has reached them. Or if it has, they are making their own plans.”
“No news is good news,” the young wolf said. But the sound of her words struck her instantly as empty and void, and she wished she had not spoken them.
The old one said nothing more. He kept his ears alert, his eyes fixed on the western sky. He was listening intently, as though hearing something far off beyond the silence of that lonely place.
***
Rowan Merrill had reached a crossroad. After spending the first half of her life in trying to emulate and please her father, she’d spent the second half trying to surpass him. She’d been patient and had worked hard to be capable of taking over her father’s work, and she’d followed his wishes later in his life—to let the Snows be, as they had let him be—until there had seemed to be no other options. Her father’s presence was diminishing by the day. She could no longer afford to be patient. Progress was her goal. Life was her goal. And no one would stand in her way.
She moved her eyes to the bodyguards and for a second made sharp contact with one. He blinked in response. Having no clue as to the capabilities of the men barring their exit, he understood only that his employer had reached the end of her patience. A show of force was now required, he got from her, and he believed himself capable of taking those actions into his own hands.
Lars watched in disbelief as one of the guards began to move. The movement began in his face as an expression of acknowledgement. Next followed his shoulder. Then his arm began to rise, bending at the elbow as his hand moved for the sidearm under his coat. Moving his sights from Miss Merrill to the guard, Lars put his finger to the trigger and held his breath.
By now everyone present could see what was happening. The other guards began to move, and the Snows in turn began to react to their movements. It all happened quickly, but it proceeded with a slow and surreal feeling.
You stupid son of a—, Lars thought as he squeezed off the first round into the man’s chest. I didn’t want to kill you, but you pushed it and made it so that it was us or you. Well, it has to be you now.
The first guard lurched forward when the bullet struck his body. The sting of the round against the Kevlar vest surprised him more than it hurt him. The sound of the shot seemed to reach him after the sting, and by then he had just touched his fingers to the handle of his 45. He continued forward, falling into the pain. Then the second round struck his throat and he fell to his knees, reaching instead away from the weapon to the sudden warm dampness at his neckline.
Lars moved his sights to the next closest guard. By now this man was pulling his own sidearm. In rapid succession Lars put two rounds through his neck, and like the first man, the second man slumped forward clutching at his throat with instantly red hands.
By the time Lars had his third victim in his sights, the Snows were in the process of subduing those final two men. He moved quickly back to Miss Merrill. She had stumbled back from the two guards as they fell forward. She’d lost her footing, rolling her ankle in her heels, and had subsequently dropped the phone in the process of falling.
“Stop! Stop!” shouted Joseph Snow.
Lars took his finger from the trigger, then raised his rifle and quickly stood up from his knees. In the background old Lester was giving one man a thorough beating. Paul did likewise but not quite as badly. Having dealt briefly with Lester himself, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for the fool that attempted to struggle with him now. Been there, done that and won’t do it again. In the next second he watched Joseph lunge for the phone and snatch it from the pavement just ahead of Miss Merrill’s wriggling fingers. She was gasping and groaning in shock, crawling and reaching like a rabid animal.
Joseph looked at the phone. The unsent message was open and waiting. He handed the phone off to Earl with the order to delete it. Then he bent down over Miss Merrill. Instantly she recoiled from him, cowering on the ground just as her grandmother had once cowered before him.
“Are you happy now?” he asked. He was neither gloating nor overly angry.
“Of course not,” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath after the shock of the violence.
“Two men are dead. If I’m not mistaken, one of them was your pilot.”
“Obviously you hired a better man,” she retorted, glancing quickly to Lars and then back to the elder Snow.
Joseph shook his head and smiled ironically with the words, “No, I didn’t. I hope you enjoy irony, Miss, because I believe that you hired him a few weeks back.”
Rowan Merrill turned her head toward the mercenary for a longer look at him. She’d never seen one of the men in person, of course. Lars stared back at her silently, his rifle over his shoulder. None had returned of the most recent scouting team. They had been written off as dead.
The lack of intelligence had been yet another frustration, but at least they had not been required to honor the monetary payouts of that contract. Now, sitting on the ground at the mercy of the Snows, she would have leapt at the opportunity to overpay the cold-looking man that was staring back at her.
“Well” Joseph sighed, drawing her attention back to him. “We’re not out of the woods yet, are we? What exactly am I to do with you, Miss Merrill?”
***
Within an hour the airstrip was quiet again. The two surviving guards, being still clueless as to the true identities of the residents of Ludlow, after being relieved of their weapons, were driven south toward Cold Spings and then set to walking.
“Am I correct in my assumption,” Joseph had asked them, “that you will not be eager to speak of the events that have transpired here tonight? Such a failure won’t likely help you much in acquiring future work in your trade.”
The two men had looked at one another briefly. Then one had spoken for both.
“What events?”
“Good,” Joseph replied. “I expect never to see either of you again.”
The men agreed and were then given the liberty of riding in the back of Lester’s truck.
Paul was given the task of moving Miss Merrill’s Sikorsky out of town.
“I’d like to land it right on the golf course of the Mt. Washington Hotel,” he suggested. “That should send a clear message to anyone that misses her.”
“Yes,” his father said through a weak smile. “But perhaps setting it down along a quiet stretch of road by the river might be better. A trooper can find it and handle it well enough. Lester can guide you in and drive you home.”
As for Miss Merrill, she was taken to Joseph’s truck, kicking and screaming the whole way. From the truck emerged Evelyn Snow. She stepped toward the irate woman and, without warning, delivered a slap to her face that would’ve shaken the teeth from a grizzly bear’s thick skull. At first she absorbed the shocking strike with little more than a shocked sound. After her ranting and cursing and stream of threats, a moment’s silence was welcome. But a moment later, she began crying, gasping, pleading, and begging for her life.
“Are you a mother?” Evelyn asked. “Are you?”
When she became tired of waiting for a response, she took the woman’s hair in her hands and quite roughly lifted her and forced her to look back at the two guards that lay bleeding out.
“These men had families. At the very least they had mothers. Look at them now. Look!” She shook the woman vigorously. “You are an elitist if I’ve ever seen one, Miss. Your disregard for all life but your own makes me sick. I would end you myself—”
“That’s enough,” her husband said softly, relieving her of the frantic woman and steering her toward his truck.
From there Joseph Snow drove her to the farm where arrangements were made for her within a stall in the barn nearest to the house. Water was presented to her in one of the horse’s grain pails. At first she attempted to kick it away, but being parched from her constant complaining and screaming of threats, she at last lowered herself to drink of the pail’s contents. At least the water was fresh and cold.
“The poor horses,” Evie commented, looking on from a few yards away. “They won’t be able to sleep with her carrying on like that.”
“She has already lost much of her strength,” her grandfather said. “Soon enough she’ll lose her voice as well. Then, in the silence, she’ll have ample time to think. Hardships have a way of purging some people … Some, at least.”
Two fresh bales of hay were made available for her comfort, broken up and spread about generously, in addition to the fresh shavings on the wooden floor. To complete her sleeping accommodations, one of Chappy’s old horse blankets was then given to her to cover with.
To prevent her from climbing out through the open space over the stall door where the horses hung their heads and watched the goings on—if indeed she was capable of such an exercise—an extra board was nailed across the opening, ensuring her containment within the stall. A padlock was then fastened to the latch, making her lodgings complete.
“I’ll bet she wished she stayed at the hotel now,” Matthew whispered to Evie as they exited the barn. “Probably had champagne and strawberries and a king bed.”
“Shh,” Evie laughed. “Papa won’t like it if we tease her too much.”
Behind them, Joseph Snow, the last one in the barn, gave Rowan Merrill a final contemplative look before leaving. She glared at him in the low glow of a single light bulb glowing in the aisle but said no more. She was pale with exhaustion and fright. Doubtless she expected Mr. Snow to execute her. He exited the barn and shut off the light, leaving her in the dark with the smells and sounds of a barn and the itch of hay and shavings and old wool blankets. It was a brisk early autumn night, sharp with the warning of the coming winter.
“Make it quick,” Joseph said to the dark wolf in passing. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
The dark wolf that was David Wilson slunk silently into the barn, shifting as he went, walking softly on the cool boards with two bare feet until he stopped by Rowan Merrill’s prison. Leaning and peering between the boards, he saw the wretched woman curled up in a ball on the floor. Her steady shaking rustled the dry hay.
“Rowan,” he said firmly but not loudly.
She looked up at him in the low light, startled by both his voice and the glow of his eyes after hearing no sounds of his approach.
“You don’t know me,” he said, “but now I know you—the one that stirred the strife and ultimately caused the death of my little sister. I have seen you now and I will never forget your face, will never forget your scent. I want you to know that if by some miracle you are allowed to leave this place freely, you will not live long. Not as long as my heart still beats. If the Snows don’t end you, I promise that I certainly will. As my sister’s exit from this world was agonizing, so I will end you … slowly … brutally. And I will do the same to any and all that you love.”
With the last few words his voice began to crack. He turned quickly and left the barn, erupting from its doorway at a dead run, snarling in rage as he rushed toward the dark of the woods. Though he’d spoken quietly, the three Snows outside the barn had heard him clearly enough.
“Let him be for a while,” Matthew warned Evie, barring her with his arm when she moved to follow him. “Now that he’s gotten some of that hell out of him, maybe he’ll start feeling a little better. More like his old self.”
“Let us hope,” their grandfather said.
***
At that same time, in the center of town, Lars stepped into McCall’s. He was morose and feeling aimless after killing the men. He sat down at the kitchen table, leaning his rifle against his leg. He heard the TV volume being lowered and then heard the old woman call to him.
“In the kitchen,” he shouted, wondering why he hadn’t gone for a longer walk or at least straight to the camp site.
A minute later she shuffled into the kitchen and offered him a cup of decaf tea and a grilled cheese sandwich.
“What the hell,” he muttered. “Yes, I’d love one,” he shouted.
“Don’t worry, son,” she said in passing, resting her little hand momentarily on his big shoulder. “One of these days you’ll get yourself a deer. I know you will. Just keep trying. I have faith in you.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling up at her.
“Was that a yes on the grilled cheese?”
Lars nodded sharply. She went about collecting the bread and cheese and started the burner under an old cast iron pan. After watching her struggle with the bread tag with her arthritic-knuckled fingers, he stood and moved across the room to her side.
“Let me help with that,” he shouted.
So for the next fifteen minutes, McCall and the mercenary made two hot cups of decaf and produced three hot sandwiches.
“Wonderful to have help in the kitchen,” McCall said once they were seate
d at the table. “My old hands aren’t as strong as they once were.”
“Yes,” Lars nodded. “You know I killed two men this evening,” he told her in a normal tone that she could not understand. “Men who were just doing their jobs and didn’t know what they were up against. I murdered them. Now they are rotting in the woods somewhere, and I’m here having dinner with you as if it’s a perfectly normal way to live.”
“The stiffness of the knuckles is the worst,” McCall replied. “It takes me twice as long to knit a simple winter hat as it used to.”
Her expression suddenly brightened. “By the way, I may as well tell you that I’ve got a hat started for you. You’ve got to realize that before long the bitter cold will be upon us. We may not like it, but winter always comes. If you’re going to be, uh—don’t take offense; I know you’re trying your best—out trying to catch a deer in foul weather, you’ll need to be properly dressed. And just because you’ve failed to bring home any venison so far doesn’t mean you should freeze to death in the process of learning to do so.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Lars smiled. “You know, since you mentioned death … I sometimes wish the big black wolf killed me years ago. Just tore me to shreds and left me for the vultures. That, I’m afraid, is exactly what killers such as myself deserve.”
“That’s all we can do,” she replied. “Just keep trying until either we die or something good happens. Just keep trying. That’s the important thing. That’s what makes a man a true man.”
“Yes it does,” Lars nodded. “Yes it does.”
For the next hour or so the two complete and total opposites shared one the best conversations either had experienced in many years. Lars revealed some of his unfulfilled hopes in life, as well as a few of his deepest fears. As he spoke freely of his strange and violent life experiences, he experienced the comfort of release that he’d often denied himself by living so strictly and solitarily. Some of the guilt he’d carried with him for many years began to lessen, and as it lessened, his mood somewhat lightened.
Seasons of Wither (The Great North Woods Pack Book 3) Page 17
