“Like if he’s waiting inside? Got a rifle packed in there?”
“Yup.”
“Jimmy, I like the way you think. We’ll go real slow.”
They went slow. The trail, however, skirted the cabin by at least fifty yards, and they relaxed. James pointed out the cabin as they passed, and Clay glanced at its dark, squat shadow in the moonlight but gave it little more attention. The bloodhounds were moving fast, and he wasn’t going to be left behind.
3:03 a.m.
Fowler placed Harold Hairy Moccasin on a low stool inside the cabin, and the three stood in a circle around him, saying nothing as they looked down on a man with a burlap bag over his head and his wrists handcuffed together behind his back.
“What is this?” Harold Hairy Moccasin asked after a minute of silence. “You can’t do this. I get one call, don’t I?”
The gas lantern hissed steadily. The sheriff, the judge, and the banker didn’t reply, didn’t shift. Nothing gave away their presence to Harold Hairy Moccasin.
“I know you’re there,” he cried. “You gotta answer me. I have my rights, man. You hear me. I have my rights.”
The judge, behind Harold, waited for a signal from the sheriff. Fowler noticed the judge was gently wetting his lips with his tongue. The new life in the judge’s face and his obvious anticipation revolted Fowler, but he needed both of them here to see and pass on to the others that Fowler was doing what his job required, keeping the valley a feudal kingdom for their benefit.
“I have my rights!” Harold screamed. His feet tapped and his legs shook. “Where are you? Speak!”
Fowler had put the sack over Harold’s head as soon as they cleared the streetlights of Kalispell. As they drove, he made it clear to Harold they were going into mountains, miles away from the nearest paved road. Without supplying the details, he’d made it equally clear that Harold should expect the worst. Fowler knew that the man would begin to imagine what would terrify him most and that the terror could feed on itself.
The judge silently mouthed a question. Now?
Fowler shook his head.
“Hey, man! I was walking to my truck to put gas in it! I needed to take a leak, so I stopped at the church, man, at the side where no one could see me. That’s all. I wasn’t going to light a fire. It just looked that way!”
Harold’s voice grew pleading. “Someone, man. You gotta talk to me.”
Fowler nodded.
The judge tapped Harold on his shoulder with an aluminum tent pole.
Harold spun so quickly that he nearly fell off the stool. “Who was that, man? What you doing?”
The banker poked Harold in the stomach with another tent pole. He spun again toward the new attack. “Get away, man. Get away!” Harold’s voice rose in panic. He lifted his hands uselessly behind his back. “Get away!”
The banker and the judge alternated, prodding from one side, then the other. Harold twisted and turned in vain at each new touch, then finally gave up and let himself sag motionless.
To get a response, the judge whacked Harold across his head. Aluminum connected with bone.
“Oh, man! Oh, man!” Harold’s wailing was muffled by the burlap sack.
Fowler shook his head angrily at the judge and motioned for both to stop.
“What’s your name?” Fowler asked.
“Harold.” He twisted his head in the direction of Fowler’s voice. “Harold Hairy Moccasin.”
“Why were you at the church?”
“I told you, man. My truck. It ran out of gas. That’s why I had some with me. I needed to take a leak, that’s all.”
Fowler nodded at the banker, not the judge; the judge was too enthusiastic. Fowler intended to let Harold go and didn’t want to hurt him bad, just scare him good.
The banker smacked Harold across the arm. Harold yelped at the unexpected blow.
“We don’t like it when you lie, Harold,” Fowler said. “Don’t lie. Why were you at the church?”
“Come on,” Harold said. “Just let me see. That’s all I ask.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Harold,” Fowler said, shaking his head at his two partners. “Get ready. We’re going to hit you again.”
Harold cringed and huddled into himself, waiting for a blow that did not come. After a minute of cringing, he began to whimper.
“Why were you at the church, Harold?”
“To burn it,” he sobbed. “Now can l see?”
“Alone? Or with help? Answer me, Harold. Who are the Native Sons?”
“Come on, man. Where’s my lawyer?”
Fowler pointed at both his partners. They began to rain light blows down upon the helpless man. Fowler cut his hand across the air, and they stopped.
Harold was sobbing. “Man, this ain’t right. It ain’t right.”
“Harold,” Fowler said, “what you don’t understand is we’re not interested in solving this for the public’s benefit. We just want to stop the Native Sons. This is our valley. You mess with our valley, we mess with you.”
The sobbing and whimpering continued.
Fowler softened his voice. “Maybe you understand now. Want to make a deal? We let you go, and you tell your friends to back off.”
“Yeah,” Harold said, his voice suddenly alive with hope. “We will! We will!”
“No chance,” Fowler snarled. “We want names.”
With names, Fowler could bring the others up one by one and terrify them, too, into leaving the valley. It would effectively end the trouble without giving the media a chance to descend and probe the valley’s secrets.
“Names, Harold,” Fowler repeated.
Fowler signaled again and more blows descended on Harold. The banker and the judge worked Harold over for a few more minutes. Fowler noticed the judge had begun to sweat.
“Ready, Harold?” Fowler said when they stopped. “We want your friends’ names.”
Fowler was surprised. He’d figured the little guy to be a coward. He’d figured him to break much sooner. It was impressive, his loyalty to his friends.
Time for more heat, Fowler decided. He wanted to get this over quickly so he could drop Harold off at some other point on the mountain and make him find his own way back so he wouldn’t know where this cabin was. Fowler didn’t enjoy this task; he just knew it needed to be done.
Harold had hunched over so much that he was almost off his stool. Fowler jerked the stool out from under him, and Harold crashed to the floor. The burlap around him showed circles of spreading bloodstains.
“Friends’ names, Harold. Who are the Native Sons?” Fowler was forced to raise his voice to be heard over Harold’s sobbing.
“Tell us, you miserable dog!” the judge snarled. Before Fowler could stop him, the judge brought his tent pole down across Harold’s head in a sidearm swing with the force of a man striking a golf ball.
The crack was audible even above Harold’s muffled sobs. Harold’s body stiffened, then jerked spasmodically for ten seconds, then became still.
The judge looked at the banker and the sheriff and wordlessly shrugged an apology. He stepped over Harold and over to the bottle of Jack Daniels where he rewarded himself by pouring another.
3:12 a.m.
Ridiculously easy, the Watcher thought, squatting just inside the cabin entrance as the bloodhounds and flashlights passed by. All it had taken was a tight circle to come back down. Soon enough they’d discover the turn in his trail and realize he’d returned to the cabin.
He had needed to mark the FBI pig. He’d thought of leading them directly to the cabin and shooting as they appeared, but that was too uncertain. He didn’t want to hit either of the other men. No, he had to be certain where the FBI pig was in their group.
Now he knew. Clay Garner was at the rear. Circling back like this had been a brilliant move. And he could shoot from closer by attacking from behind instead of waiting in the cabin.
The Watcher grabbed Nick Buffalo’s rifle from where it was propped by the log w
all beside the entrance. He stepped into the night air, away from the copper smell of Nick Buffalo’s pooled blood.
He cocked the rifle and ran toward the disappearing flashlights uphill. He wasn’t concerned about being heard. The dogs and crashing of the other men’s footsteps would conceal any noise he made on his approach. And, as if he’d been fated to succeed, the breeze was blowing down the mountain, taking his scent away from the dogs, not toward them. Shooting the FBI pig would be child’s play, especially since he followed a couple of steps behind McNeill and Latcher.
It took the Watcher only a minute to close in on the three. The light from their flashlights enabled him to clearly distinguish each man. Not that it would have been difficult in less light. Of the three, Clay Garner seemed a full head taller.
The Watcher ran to within twenty-five steps of his oblivious prey. He wanted to be closer to be more certain but needed to give himself distance to escape.
Close enough. He crouched on one knee and steadied the rifle against his shoulder. A head shot would be perfect but too risky. He couldn’t afford to miss on the first shot.
He picked instead the outline of the man’s broad back as a target.
This was a lot more fun than shooting deer, he thought. He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle’s flat explosion rocked the night air. His target tumbled forward. The other two froze, only briefly, then dove to the side.
The Watcher fired three more shots, pointing upward at the sky. He only needed to establish confusion, enough to give him the chance to get back to the cabin. Then he turned and sprinted downhill, leaving behind howling dogs and curses. Ten seconds later, he reached the cabin and ducked inside. He stepped to the cabin wall where Nick Buffalo’s body lay slumped in the dirt, then dragged the body back to the entrance.
And waited.
* * *
“He dead?” Caleb shouted. “He dead?”
No, Clay tried to reply, but couldn’t. He was in shock. He’d had one foot in the air, ready to step downward, then without warning, like a bird flying into a picture window, he’d been dropped. It wasn’t until his face was pressing into hard ground that he dimly pieced the explosion sound to a rifle shot and the rifle shot with the pain in his upper ribs and only then vaguely understood he’d been hit by a bullet.
He felt someone roll him over.
Light pounded his eyes. He wanted to shut them against the glare but worried it might be too easy to keep them closed, so he blinked frantically and soundlessly.
“Off his face,” McNeill ordered. “Let’s see where he took it.”
The beam moved down his body and Clay realized that McNeill was using a knife to cut open his bulky sweater and shirt.
“Bad,” Caleb said seconds later. “Real bad.”
“Maybe not.” McNeill’s voice was calm. He was removing his jacket, then his shirt. Clay heard ripping sounds. “We’ve got to wad this over the entrance and exit.”
McNeill gently lifted him partway. “Get your hand under him and press this against his back. Hold it there.”
Caleb did as he was told. Then McNeill lowered Clay’s upper body.
“Wad this piece on the exit wound and hold it there, too.” McNeill ordered. “It’s not sucking. He’s not bubbling. Let’s hope it missed his lungs.”
“Jimmy, what if he returns?” Caleb asked. “We’re sitting ducks.”
“Shut up. Keep your hands in place. We’re not going to lose this man. Got that? Shut up and don’t move.”
Clay closed his eyes. He felt a jacket covering him up. Caleb’s hands kept pressing against his back and chest.
“Clay? Clay?”
He realized McNeill was talking to him. Clay moaned.
“Look. Hang in there,” McNeill said. “The worst is stopped. We’re going to –”
Rifle shots thundered again.
McNeill swore. “Caleb, he’s in the cabin.”
“He’ll keep shooting till he gets lucky!”
“Don’t move. Just don’t move.” McNeill was up and gone.
Clay tried not to breathe. He felt stickiness on his back and on his belly. A detached part of his mind told him it was his blood draining away.
The nearby bloodhounds whined.
Clay felt the shock disappear and pain began to grip him. He decided to grimly count each breath. Anything to get him through. He moaned again. Then he began to drift through a hazy river of time marked by the rising and falling of his chest.
I’m dead, he thought. Where’s Sherry? Where’s Samantha? I want them waiting for me in heaven.
Clay felt wet warmth on his face. He realized he was crying.
He heard another barrage of rifle shots followed by loud shouting.
He began to lose count of the rise and fall of his chest. He couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Brightness flared beyond his closed eyelids. Heaven? He fought to open his eyes again. Where were his wife and baby?
The brightness registered as flames. The cabin. The mad trapper’s cabin. Burning bright.
Then there was a shadow above him. McNeill.
“Keep him going, Caleb. Press hard. Make sure the dressing doesn’t shift. I’m going for a horse to take him back down.”
Clay smiled at McNeill’s foolishness. Clay didn’t need a horse to get to heaven. Only a prayer.
Dear Lord, he began, take me home to my wife and baby...
The flames, the shadows, the pressure of Caleb’s hands, and the pain of his own breathing faded away before he finished his plea.
Day 8
2:05 p.m.
“I’m out of here tomorrow, Miss Nightingale,” Clay said a few minutes after Kelsie arrived in his hospital room. She was sitting near his bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore blue jeans and a light sweater; Clay wore hospital greens. “Thanks for your kind attention.”
Clay smiled at the delicate furrows that appeared across Kelsie’s brow. She was too polite to ask, so he explained. “Florence Nightingale. Famous nurse. A little before your time.”
“Lady of the Lamps,” she replied. “I do read, you know.”
“I’m sorry. The look on your face said otherwise.”
“The look on my face said I don’t understand why you are leaving. Didn’t the doctors say you needed at least another week?”
“I’m being transferred to a hospital in Virginia. There’s a man out there who wants to bring me up to speed on my new assignment. He doesn’t want me wasting time just lying around.”
“Oh.” The news seemed to put her into a quiet state.
During his convalescence, Clay had frequently wondered why Kelsie visited him in the hospital twice a day. He had a theory, and this seemed as good a time as any to fry to help her.
“Kelsie,” he said, “I want you to know that you don’t owe me a thing. You can’t blame yourself for what happened to me.”
She studied him without any reaction.
Suddenly flustered by the girl’s poise, Clay stammered a bit as he continued. “What – what I’m saying is that even though you don’t owe me anything, if you think you do, you’ve more than repaid me with your time and concern. When I leave tomorrow, you can pretend all of this summer never happened.”
“What about your investigation?” she asked.
The change of subject was so abrupt, Clay floundered again briefly. “Well, uh, they know Nick was the one. You’re safe.”
“Train investigation,” she corrected him.
Clay frowned. “My SAC –”
“SAC?”
“Special agent in charge. He’s instructed me to wrap it up. The engineer’s reports are coming back inconclusive, and with no specific evidence to the contrary, all agencies are concluding the derailment was an accident.” He grimaced. “Politics. Everyone already knew that would be the conclusion. Except for me. I came in thinking I’d bust something open and make a name for myself. Instead, all they wanted was an FBI seal of approval to cover everyone’s respectiv
e rear ends.” He shook his head. “I was that seal, all right. Just feed me some fish and pat my flippers.”
Kelsie smiled at his feeble joke. “They gave you a new assignment, didn’t they?”
“B.S.”
“You just said –”
“B.S. doesn’t mean that. It means Behavioral Science. Tracking down more animals like Nick Buffalo.”
Kelsie closed her eyes briefly then let out a deep breath. “I think that will help a lot more people than being an FBI seal.”
“Me, too,” Clay said.
A nurse knocked on the door, and Kelsie stood. “My cue to leave.”
“Hey,” Clay said. “Thanks. You know. For –”
“For visiting?”
He nodded.
Kelsie moved directly beside him and took one of his hands in hers. “I want you to know,” she said, “I never once came up here because I thought I owed it to you.”
Her fingers were gentle on his. “Someday I hope to meet someone as kind and gentle as you. And I'll marry him.”
Before he could reply, she leaned down quickly and kissed his cheek. Then she straightened and walked out of the room, leaving him to smile at a schoolgirl’s crush.
2:07 p.m.
A knock at the door brought all heads up from school desks. A week into school, and already the first-grade class understood the value of diversion.
When Mrs. Schmidke opened the door, the children saw a woman in blue jeans and an old sweatshirt. She was crying silently, her face contorted in pain.
Mrs. Schmidke put her arms around the woman and stepped outside into the hallway. None of the kids in the class spoke.
Why would a grown-up be crying?
Some of the kids looked at a boy sitting at one of the center desks. They knew it was his mother crying.
The boy didn’t return any of their looks but stared straight ahead. He knew the best way to deal with anything that made him anxious was to pretend he was made of stone.
Mrs. Schmidke stepped back inside the classroom and called the boy’s name.
Without expression, he stood and walked out to meet his mother. She squatted in front of him, gazed into his eyes, tried to speak, then sobbed and threw her arms around him. It wasn’t until they were in the car that she finally managed to tell him anything.
Blood Ties Page 16
