by John Dunning
We stopped at the side of the road and I sat with my eyes closed while Trish looked at the map. I was thinking of the sequence again, probing it at the weak places. Laura Warner sent her book back, but by then the killer was on the road, coming her way. Hockman had mailed his letter from St. Louis, as much as a week earlier. Hockman was already dead and the killer was somewhere between St. Louis and New Orleans, taking the scenic route. The killer arrived in New Orleans after stopovers in Phoenix, Baltimore, and Idaho. He killed Laura Warner but couldn’t find her book. So he burned the whole house down, figuring he’d get it that way.
We were moving again: I heard Trish give a nervous little sigh and the car regained its steady rhythm. “Not much further now,” she said, and I answered her with a grunt so she’d know I was still among the living. I was thinking of the woman in red, nervous about selling her Raven , willing to consider it because of the money but finally backing out in a jittery scene that Scofield would remember as a sudden attack of conscience. And I thought of the Rigby place where all the Ravens were, and I thought again how one thing leads to another in this business of trying to figure out who the killers are.
We had stopped. I opened my eyes and saw that she had turned into a long, straight forest road, a mix of mud and gravel that stretched out like a ribbon and gradually faded to nothing. She was looking at me in the glow of the dash, and I had the feeling she was waiting for me to laugh and say the hell with this, let’s go back to town and shack up where it’s dry and warm. I reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Let’s go get her,” I said.
Her mouth trembled a little. She put the car in gear and we started into the woods.
56
It was desolate country, the road rutted and water-filled. We banged along at fifteen miles an hour and it seemed too fast, and still we got nowhere. I sat up straight, watching the odometer move by tenths of a mile. The road would run north by northeast for seven miles, I remembered from the map: then we’d come to a fork and the branch we wanted would run along the creek and climb gradually past the lake. The cabin would be in the woods at the top of the rise. Our chances of making it would depend on the condition of the road beyond the fork. Down here the gravel kept it hard, basic and boring, one mile-slice indistinguishable from the next. We would come to a bend, but always the ribbon rolled out again, winnowing into a black wall that kept running away from us. I had a vision of a vast mountain range off to my right, though nothing could be seen past the narrow yellow shaft thrown out by the headlights. We could be anywhere in the world, I thought.
I put an arm over Trish’s shoulder and stroked her neck with my finger. She smiled faintly without taking her eyes off the road. I touched her under the left ear and stirred the hair on her neck. She made a kissing gesture and tried to smile again. Her skin felt cool and I noticed a chill in the air. She had started to shiver, perhaps to tremble—I had never thought about the difference until then—but she made no move to turn on the heater, and finally I reached over and did it for her. “Don’t pick at me, Janeway, I’m fine.” In the same instant she reached up and took my hand, pressed it tightly against her cheek, kissed my knuckles, and held me tight. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Incredibly, we had come just two miles. It seemed we had been on this road to nowhere half the night. The odometer stood still while the clock moved on, flicking its digit to 1:35 in the march toward a gray dawn four hours away. We had already debated the wisdom of coming in the dark, the most significant of the pros and cons being the possibility of getting in close before anyone could see us coming versus groping around in an alien landscape. Best to stay loose, I thought: see what we found when we got there. We could park and wait in the trees if that seemed best. Given my temperament, neither of us could see that happening.
The road had begun to rise gradually out of the valley and the rain was now little more than a fine mist. The headlights showed a wall of rock rising up from the right shoulder and a sudden drop-off on the left. We came to a short steep stretch, then it leveled off again and the climb went on at its steady upward drift. “I think the lake’s over there,” Irish said, nodding into the chasm. “The fork’s got to be right here somewhere.”
We reached it a few minutes later, as the clock turned over at 2:04. Now the tough part would begin. But it wasn’t tough at all. The rain ceased to be a factor up here as the road faded into simple ruts on a grassy slope. The grass held the earth firm even in the rain. We could make it, but it was going to be slow going on a road well-pocked with deep holes. The car rocked, sloshed through what seemed like a gully, and then began to climb again. This continued until we crested on a hill. “Probably lovely up here on a sunny day,” Trish said. God’s country, I thought. I hoped God was home to walk us through it.
“Let’s do it,” I heard myself say. “Let’s get it on.”
This was a stupid thing to say and she laughed a little. She said, “Jesus,” under her breath, and the name seemed to come up from some ethereal force in the car between us. How did we get here, defying logic, with no viable alternatives in sight? I wanted to get it done now, pull out the stops and get on down the road. But we rocked along at a crawl. It was 2:30 a.m.
Then we were there. I knew it. She knew it. There were no signs posted and no cabins in sight, but something made her stop on the slope and let the car idle for a long moment. “I think we’re very close,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. The terrain had stiffened in the last hundred yards as if in a last-ditch effort to push us back. We were sitting on a sharp incline, her headlights pointing into the sky. “Careful when you go over the hill,” I said. “Better cut your lights and go with the parking lights.” She pushed the switch too far and the world plunged into a darkness so black I had nothing in my experience to compare it to. She pulled on the parking lights and the only relief from the oppressive night was that the dashboard light came on and lit up our faces. “Not gonna be able to see a damn thing with these parking lights,” she said. But we didn’t dare make our final approach any brighter.
“Let’s see how the radio’s doing,” she said.
She lifted the little transmitter off its hook, pressed a button, and said, “Car six to desk, car six to desk.”
Static flooded the car.
She sighed and tried again.
Nothing.
“No offense to you, sweetheart,” she said, “but I can’t remember ever feeling quite this alone.”
“Let’s get going.”
She eased the car over the hump. The road made a severe dip to the right, and I braced against the door with my foot and leaned against her to keep her steady behind the wheel. We straightened out and went into another dip. The floor scraped against the rocks as we straddled deep holes at the bottom. Up we went again, Trish hunched tight over the wheel, fighting shadows and ghosts that hadn’t been there before. The parking lights weren’t much better than nothing. “God, I can’t even see the road now,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“Hold it a minute.”
She stopped and I told her I was going to get out and lead her along on foot. She didn’t like that, but she didn’t like this either. I took my flashlight and opened the door and stepped out on a rocky hillside. Underbrush grew thick on the slope beneath me: I could see an almost impenetrable blanket of it in the faint glow of the parking lights. The rain was steady but light: it didn’t bother me at all. I flicked my flashlight and motioned her on, walking slowly three feet ahead. The ground rose again and we took it easy and gradually worked our way to the top.
Something flashed off through the trees. She killed the lights and I felt my way back to the car.
We sat in the dark, listening to the rain drumming lightly on the roof.
“Looks like somebody’s home.”
It was my voice, rising out of nothing. I moved over next to her and we sat for a while just looking at the light from the cabin.
; “Whoever’s there keeps late hours,” I said.
I put my gun on the seat beside my right leg, along with the flashlight. It was hard to know what to do, to do the wise and right thing. It would be a grope, going up there in the dark, and I couldn’t take a chance on using the light. Slip on the rocks and maybe break a leg. But I knew I couldn’t sit here till first light either.
Trish was trying the radio again. “Car six to desk.”
A broken voice came at us from the dash. “…esk…ix…you…ish?”
“Stand by, please.” She turned her face and spoke in my ear. “I don’t know if he’s really reading me. What should I tell him?”
“Whatever you want.”
It doesn’t matter, I thought grimly. It’s up to us.
Correction. It was up to me.
I felt a little sick thinking about my predicament. Trish had no place in this action except to complicate it. Should’ve seen that, Janeway, and read her the rules accordingly. You see things differently at the bottom of the hill. You play by her rules, bending over to be politically correct, and you bend too far and put your tit in a wringer.
But it wasn’t my call anymore because that’s when the killer came for us.
57
These things happened in less time than it takes to tell it.
I felt his presence. I knew he was there, and then he was there.
The windshield smashed and shards burst in on us. I heard a clawing sound, someone tearing at the door on the driver’s side. I brought up the light and saw a flash of steel, and I killed the light and fell across Trish as two slugs came ripping through the door glass.
The back glass blew out, crumbling into hundreds of little nuggets. I reached behind me and slammed down the lock—just in time, as he grabbed the handle and yanked it hard, rocking the car with his power. Something heavy came down on the roof: the car took a rapid-fire pounding as if some giant had begun battering it with a log. He was kicking at the door with his boots, as if he could smash it in and tear us apart with raw power. I heard the side window break: another kick and it came completely out of its frame, and I knew in seconds he’d have his hand inside grabbing for the lock. I couldn’t find my gun—in the scramble on the seat it had fallen somewhere and I didn’t have time to fish for it. What I did was instinct: I grabbed the gearshift, jerked it down, and hit the accelerator with my fist. The car bumped down the slope, driverless and blind, clattered off the road, hit a deep hole, and threw us together with a punishing jolt. Trish took the brunt of my weight: her breath went out like a blown tire, and the car careened again and she took another vicious hit. I thought we were going over, but no—there was a tottering sensation and a heavy thud as the wheels came down. I heard the sound of bushes tearing at us: we were plunging through the underbrush, spinning crazily on a quickening downward course. I was going after the brake when the crack-up came—a thud, a crunch, and a shattering stop, flinging me against the floor with Trish on top. I felt a tingle in my legs, and in that moment my great fear was that I had broken my back.
I kicked open the door and slipped out on a carpet of wet grass. I lay there breathing hard, listening for approaching footsteps. I heard Trish move inside the car, a few feet away. “Where are you?” she said thickly, and I shushed her and pulled myself close. I reached back into the car, felt along the seat and down to the floor. I felt her leg, her thigh, her breast, her arm…and under the arm, my gun.
“Hold tight,” I whispered. “Don’t move.”
I pulled myself around to the end of the car, facing what I thought was the upslope. Now, you son of a bitch, I muttered. Come now.
Now that I can bite back.
But of course he didn’t come, he was too cunning for that. I sat in the rain and waited, guessing he could be anywhere. He could be ten feet away and I’d never know it till too late. This worked two ways—he couldn’t see in the dark any better than me, I could hope, and in any exchange of gunfire my odds would have to be pretty good. I had been in gunfights and left two thugs in cold storage: all he’d done was kill people.
I felt better now. The gun was warm in my hand, like the willing flesh of an old girlfriend. Sweetheart, I thought, papa loves you. I looked back where I knew the open door was: wanted to say something that would cheer her up but didn’t dare. I didn’t know where he’d gone: couldn’t risk even a slight bit of noise that might stand out in the steady drip of the forest. He’d have to assume I was now armed. He’d have missed his chance to overpower us and now he would know—if he knew anything about me—that I’d had time to get out my piece. If not, it was a big mark for our side. Maybe he’d even come after us in that same reckless, frenzied way. Come ahead, Fagan, I thought—come and get it. I willed him to come and I waited in the grass like a scorpion. But he wasn’t there.
I felt a great sense of calm now. He had tried and missed—tough luck for him. He had taken his shot but I was still here, huddled in the cop mode with my gun in my hand. I heard something move behind me. Trish was out of the car, coming on her hands and knees. I shushed her again, took her in my arm, and pulled her down against me. I told her it was all right now, it was going to be fine. I was goddamned invincible and I wanted her to know it, to help quiet the desperate fear I thought must be eating her alive. Then she whispered, “What do you want me to do?” in a voice so wonderfully calm it pushed me up another notch, past the cop mode to a place I’d never been.
It wasn’t just me anymore, protecting some helpless woman. She was my partner again and I drew on her strength.
“Janeway.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Well, knock it off.”
I made a little laughing sound through my nose and hugged her tight.
Don’t get too cocky, I was thinking: don’t try to be Doc Savage or Conan the Barbarian. You don’t need to be now, she’s here with you.
Gotta plan, I thought. Gotta be more than strong, gotta be smart.
Draw him out. Use the environment, whatever the hell it is out there. Bloom where you’re planted, in the country of the blind.
See him first and you’ve got him. Draw him to the place where he thinks you are, then be somewhere else.
H. G. Wells had it right when he lifted that proverb. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king .
Light might do it.
Noise might.
I put my mouth against her ear and said, “I’m going back to the car. Keep alert.”
I crawled to the door and up to the front seat. Static poured out of the radio, through the open door, and blended into the rain. I wasn’t sure yet what I was doing: the first bit of business was to find out what was possible. I needed to see. I took off my jacket to make a shield against the light, then I reached over and turned the light switch back so the dash would light up. A voice came through the radio—“Desk to car six”—and I jumped back against the seat, startled. But the voice broke up and disappeared in the static. I opened the glove compartment. There wasn’t much inside—a few papers, the registration, an ownership manual, a screwdriver, some road maps, and a roll of electrical tape. What could I make of that?
The radio said “six” and faded, and I had an idea. I leaned out and hissed. Irish crawled over and I told her what I was going to do. The static on the radio was now a jumble of voices, low enough that it couldn’t be heard much beyond the open door, but the noise was constant. It wouldn’t matter, I thought: he wouldn’t hear it. I tore one of the road maps apart, wadded up a quarter section, added some spit, and made it into a gummy mass, a spitball about half the size of my fist. It would fit well enough into the slight recesses of the steering wheel spokes where the horn buttons were. I picked up the electrical tape and leaned out into the rain. “Here we go,” I said.
I blew the horn. Twice…three times.
“Scream,” I said, and she screamed my name at the black sky.
I mashed the wadded paper into the horn button and the steady wail began. I whipped the tape
tight around it, three, four, five times, and left it dangling. The horn blared away: it would drive a sane man crazy and a crazy man wild. He’d have to come now, I thought: he’d have to.
I took her hand and we moved away from the car.
Carefully…one step at a time.
Eight steps…ten…
Underbrush rose up around us.
“Get down here,” I said. “Lie flat under those bushes and don’t move.”
She dropped to the ground and was gone. I stood still and waited.
I tried to remember what little I had seen of the terrain. The car had tilted right as it clattered down the slope. We had gone a hundred yards, I guessed, which would put the cabin somewhere to the left and above us.
The horn filled the night with its brassy music. I felt as if I were standing on top of it, it was that loud.
Off in the distance a light flashed. It flicked on and off twice. I said, “Uh-huh,” and waited. He was gambling, hoping he could find his way without tipping his hand. You lose, I thought. His flashlight came on again, swung in a quick semicircle, dropped briefly down the slope, and off again. I now knew that the road was about fifteen feet above me, that the ground was steeper than I’d thought, and he was forty to sixty yards away, moving along to my right. He wouldn’t dare use the light again, I thought, but almost at once he gave it another tiny flick, as if he’d seen something he couldn’t quite believe the first time. Yes, he had caught a piece of the car in that swing past it: he saw it now, and if he raised the beam by a few degrees, he’d see me too, standing by the trees waiting. If he moved the light at all, I’d go for him right from here. Knock him down and he’s done for…give him a flesh wound, a broken arm, a ventilated liver. On the firing range I’d been a killer— shooting from the hip, in a stance, close up or distant, it didn’t matter. I could empty a gun in three seconds and fill the red with holes. It’s an instinct some cops have and sometimes it saves your life.
