Gone to Ground

by Cheryl Taylor

  Hopefully when they get here, if they get here, they’ll think we hit the road as soon as we realized that the computer was traced. Maggie grimaced, remembering Mark’s recent withdrawal. In spite of her assurances that everything would be okay, and that sooner or later this situation would have arisen, especially with the arrival of the other children, Mark seemed to be trapped in a well of self blame.

  O’Reilly had also tried to talk with him while driving the horses and cattle out to the east pasture yesterday morning. He told Maggie later that during the entire ride up, and the long walk back he’d attempted to break through Mark’s self imposed shell, feeling as though he was beating at a brick wall with a feather.

  Then, just as they were at the gate to the home pasture, Mark turned to him and said, “It’s okay, O’Reilly. Honest. You don’t need to lie to me to save my feelings. I know that getting on that computer is what’s causing all this. They could have only traced the others as far as Wikieup. I brought them straight here. I understand that. There’s no way I could have known the computer was dangerous. It was an accident, but that doesn’t change anything. I just wish everyone would stop pretending that it didn’t happen.” With that, Mark turned and walked across the pasture, leaving a stunned O’Reilly standing in the gateway, hands hanging at his sides, feeling helpless.

  As O’Reilly described the encounter to Maggie later, she could still see some of that feeling of helplessness lurking in his eyes, vying with an expression that Maggie could only describe as admiration.

  He shook his head, then looked her straight in the eye. That moment was frozen in Maggie’s memory, like a snapshot taken at a key moment in time. It was yesterday evening. The children and dogs were all bedded down in the cave and Maggie and O’Reilly had ventured back out to the main entrance to watch the evening rain and lightning show.

  “You know something,” O’Reilly said, a rueful expression on his face, “When my wife and daughter died, I would have given anything for someone to face the truth the way Mark did.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Maggie protested. She looked at O’Reilly with a startled look on her face. Other than the one mention of a daughter weeks ago, O’Reilly had never talked about a family, other than that of his childhood.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Mark’s thinking he’s pretty much given us all up, and he’s not fool enough to believe that we’ve made all these precautions even though there’s no danger. No, I’m pretty sure that Mark’s aware that lives may be at stake, including yours. He’s dealing with it, and not letting it cripple him, and I envy him that strength. He’s struggling, sure, but he’ll figure things out.”

  O’Reilly took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then blew it out.

  “It’s not that I personally caused Sarah’s and Kay-Tee’s deaths, but it was because of me that they were on that road at that time.”

  “You mean they didn’t die from the disease?” Maggie was surprised. So much death had happened recently due to the virus that she’d never considered that his briefly mentioned daughter, and never mentioned wife, had died in any other manner.

  “No. It was a car accident. Four years ago. Drunk driver ran them off the road on that steep part of I-17 between Cordes Junction and Phoenix.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Maggie said. She stared at him, watching the different expressions flit across his face.

  “The worst part is that they were only driving home that night because of me. Sarah had taken Kay-Tee down to see her mother on New Years. I was supposed to go, but wound up taking an extra shift that day. Sarah wasn’t very happy about it, but she didn’t complain. She never complained.” O’Reilly paused, staring out at the rain.

  “Sarah planned on staying the night at her mother’s, but I asked her to come home instead. She agreed, and because of that she and Kay-Tee were on the road at the same time as the drunken bastard who ran them off.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Maggie protested, reaching toward O’Reilly’s hand.

  “You’re right, I couldn’t have known, but the fact was that I did put them on the road at that time. It was an accident. Nothing more. But having everyone constantly tell me it wasn’t my fault ate at me. It made me hold tighter to the idea that it was my fault. Mark’s right. It’s easier if people don’t deny things. You just face up to your share of responsibility, no more, and move on.” O’Reilly gave a little, humorless laugh.

  The two of them sat in silence, watching the rain ebb as the storm moved off to the east.

  Now, as Maggie thought back to last night, and the flood of emotions she saw washing through O’Reilly as he recounted the tragedy of his wife’s and daughter’s deaths, she thought she began to understand the toll that the current situation was taking on him. If he felt that he let his wife and daughter down; if somewhere inside himself he still felt as though he caused their deaths, as he apparently still did, then that guilt had almost certainly shaped his reaction to having other lives dependent on him now.

  O’Reilly’s initial aloofness made sense, too. It wasn’t, as she’d first thought, that he’d resented being thrust into the role of babysitter for a bunch of greenhorns. From the way he’d described his earlier life, he’d done a pretty good job of isolating himself from anyone whom he might care about, and who might care about him. It must have been overwhelming, not to mention frustrating, to suddenly find himself in charge of seven other lives. It also explained a lot about why he’d left Christina behind, in spite of the way he felt about the APZs.

  Maggie shook her head as she turned her back on the empty little house and walked out, carefully closing the door behind her. The challenge, as she saw it, would be to make sure that O’Reilly didn’t sacrifice himself needlessly because he was afraid of letting someone else down. Her stomach turned at the thought of O’Reilly captured... killed.

  The irony of the situation suddenly hit her, causing her to stop short. Here was someone fighting for all he was worth to keep from opening himself to anyone lest he be hurt, or cause hurt, again, and he’d told her most of his secrets. Yet, she couldn’t remember a time where she’d bared her soul to him about her past.

  Granted, she thought wryly, resuming her walk to the barn, her past hadn’t been nearly as exciting as his, apparently. Downright boring, when you thought about it. But still, she’d been guarding her memories of Mike carefully, never discussing her loss with O’Reilly as he’d told her about his. Maybe it was because since running into the ranch lands, she’d been busy just trying to keep Mark and herself alive. Maybe there were other reasons.

  She snorted. Fine pair O’Reilly and I are, she thought. When all this is done, and we’ve lived through it, he and I will have to have a serious talk. All the skeletons out of the closets and the ghosts banished. A smile flitted across her face as she realized that she was already thinking of the future, as though the battle had already been fought and won.

  Maggie headed on, humming as she went, a bounce in her step.

  36

  The clouds parted, allowing the light of the three-quarter moon to splash down on the small side canyon, illuminating parts of the narrow cattle trail wh

  ere it wound through brush and juniper down toward the main course of Adobe Canyon. The soft rattle of stones and thud of boots announced the advancement of Rickards’ team.

  A sudden yelp from midway through the procession brought the entire group to a halt, scrambling for their weapons in the half light. There was a pause as everyone waited, looking suspiciously around for the unseen assailant.

  Nothing moved. The only sounds were distant thunder, and some not so distant, but very proficient, whispered cursing.

  “Who’s that?” Rickards barked in a strangled half whisper.

  “Donner, sir,” came the disembodied voice approximately fifteen feet behind Rickards.

  “Well, what the hell happened, Donner.”

  “I bumped into a goddamned cholla cactus, sir. My damned jeans are nailed to my ass.” A snort o
f laughter from elsewhere in the line was quickly choked off.

  “Get ‘em un-nailed, then, and get quiet. I won’t lose the element of surprise because of some damned cactus.”

  They’d finally been able to make the break from Wikieup yesterday morning, using the four-wheel drive Jeeps and ATVs to traverse the muddy roads, leaving the electronics van and two men in Wikieup. Several times the field team was held up for hours while freeing a stuck vehicle, but in spite of the delays, they’d made their final approach to the canyon earlier that afternoon.

  Rickards had decided that they should leave the vehicles at least two miles away from the canyon’s rim, fearing that the engine noise would alert O’Reilly that they were coming. It was imperative that they take the fugitives by surprise.

  The initial pass of the seekers had identified a second route out of the canyon. If the fugitives were using horses, as Rickards was sure they were, it would be possible for O’Reilly to take the children and make a run for it, establishing a good head start before Rickards could get vehicles to the far side of the canyon, either by coming down from I-40 or over from Highway 89. Of course, when the new seekers arrived, they should be able to find O’Reilly, but things would still be much easier if he was surprised in his hideout.

  Scouts discovered this small trail leading down into the canyon, and it was decided that the team would wait for the cover of night, follow the trail to the canyon bottom, and establish themselves at either end of the valley while the residents were sleeping. Then, as the sun came up Rickards’ team would make their attack, capturing the fugitives as they were rising.

  The moon was sinking toward the rim of the canyon and the sky was silvery-dark, speckled with bright stars, when the band of Enforcers reached the point in the canyon where it opened up into the meadow they’d seen on the video feed sent from the seeker. Rickards held up a hand, signaling the men to halt while he inspected the valley. The barn and windmill glowed softly in the lunar light. In the shadow of the cliff wall, where the seeker’s image had shown varying degrees of darkness, a house of a sort was now evident.

  Rickards watched the house and barn for a few minutes, listening carefully for any noises from the buildings that might indicate where O’Reilly was. A low squeak caught his attention and he tried to pin point the source.

  There it was. The windmill was turning slowly in a light breeze. Nothing more.

  The house was silent, the windows dark. O’Reilly and the children must still be asleep. Looking at the peaceful scene, Rickards felt an unexpected twinge of remorse.

  The setting was idyllic. Maybe not exactly Norman Rockwell, or Wyeth, but it definitely carried the same sense of peace. Compared to the chaos of the APZ, this small, secluded valley seemed like paradise.

  Still duty demanded, and Rickards had always followed his orders.

  For a moment longer Rickards watched the meadow aware of a slowly growing disquiet and ignoring the shuffling and fidgeting of the men behind him until a sudden touch on his shoulder jerked him back to reality.

  He shook himself, as though waking from a dream and turned back toward the owner of the hand. It was Harlan, looking past Rickards toward the barn and the pasture beyond.

  “Any sign of the fugitives, sir?”

  “No. No sign of movement. They must be still asleep.” Rickards glanced back at the peaceful scene that drew him in.

  Giving himself a second mental shake, Rickards turned again to the group of officers following him.

  “Okay, lets put the plan into action. Harlan, you take Stevens and Martinez and go to the far end of the meadow. Station yourselves so that you have eyes on the exit, but are also close enough to get back here pronto should need arise. I don’t think there’ll be a fire fight, not with the kids there, but you never know.

  “Larson, you watch this end of the canyon. Take cover in those rocks. If O’Reilly makes it through us and heads this way, take him out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Johnson, you, Gomez, Peters, Donner and I will move to the barn area, and from there closer to the house where we can take O’Reilly and the children as they exit.”

  Before leaving the vehicles, the team had discussed at length the best strategy for capturing the fugitives. Rickards felt it would be wiser to attempt to apprehend O’Reilly outside the house, presuming that the dark area the seeker had shown was actually a residence of some type. The consensus of the team was that O’Reilly would be less likely to have ready access to weapons outside of the building. It was to be assumed that he hadn’t come to the valley unprepared, but hopefully he would be feeling safe enough in his little hidyhole that he wouldn’t be carrying a gun with him when he came out to do the morning chores. If he did have a weapon on his person, at least he wouldn’t have easy access to any others.

  The plan was to wait for him, and hopefully the children, to leave the house. Two people stationed at the side of the building would quickly move to block his retreat back inside. The others would come at him from the front. If he could be taken alive, that was preferred. Rickards wanted to know exactly what it was about the information O’Reilly had discovered that had driven him out of the APZ. However, if taking him alive was impossible, then elimination was preferable to escape.

  The horizon to the east above the canyon rim was beginning to pearl as the men moved into position, Gomez and Donner crouched down at either side of the door, while Rickards, Peters and Johnson secreted themselves among the outbuildings.

  All was silent except for the slight creak of the windmill as it continued to turn in the gentle breeze.

  It was shortly after 4:45, the sky overhead was lightening and Rickards was beginning to wonder how long O’Reilly and the children were planning on sleeping - didn’t farmers get up early to do chores and things like that? - when suddenly all hell broke lose.

  Donner was crouched to the right of the door, when without warning, a raucous screech erupted from the large deep-set window over his head. He startled, fell backward, and in doing so, released a burst of gunfire. Gomez, on the opposite side of the doorway was apparently struck, because he let out a yell that could be heard in Kingman, and fell backward gripping his leg in both hands and dropping his gun causing it to discharge.

  Rickards yelled to Johnson and Peters to move and all three raced toward the house, rifles aimed at the front wall, where yet another belligerent blast of noise caused Donner to scramble away from the wall where he’d been crouching.

  Rickards skidded to a stop and panned his weapon, pointing it at the dark opening in the structure’s wall. With another harsh crow, a ball of feathers erupted out of the open window, causing Rickards to reflexively pull the trigger, the bullet shattering the window. The rooster, barely identifiable in the predawn darkness, hit the ground ten feet out from the house, ruffled its feathers, scratched the ground several times, then strutted off toward the barn to the amazement of the five men.

  What the hell... thought Rickards. Suddenly he became aware of a chatter of voices in his ear.

  “What’s going on...?”

  “Captain, what’s happening, report...?”

  “...hear shooting, do you need help?”

  Pulling himself back together, Rickards touched the send button on the radio at his ear. “It’s all right. We were surprised by... by an animal attack.” Rickards couldn’t bring himself to admit that they were thrown off guard by a chicken. The story was bound to come out, and be laughed about for years to come, but at this point he felt he needed more distance before he could see the humor in the situation.

  “All is secure here but we have one man injured,” Rickards glanced at Gomez, where he sat, rolling up a pant leg so that Johnson could see where the bullet had creased the flesh. “No sign of the fugitives.”

  No sign at all.

  Rickards studied the house intently. Why isn’t there a sign? We’ve made enough noise to wake the people living in Laughlin.

  Pulling his rifle back up to his should
er, Rickards approached the front door. He signaled Johnson, Peters and Donner to back him up. Slowly he reached out his left hand to take the knob, keeping his gun at the ready.

  With a sudden thrust, he pushed the door inward, only to realize that, in spite of the growing light outside, inside the house it was still dark as midnight. He tensed, waiting for an attack from the gloom. When it didn’t materialize, he fumbled at his belt for his flashlight.

  Slowly he panned the light around the inside of the room. It wasn’t large. On one side was a small kitchen area. On the other side, a table and chairs, a wood stove. A small couch was under the window. Along the back wall were four closed doors.

  No sign of the quarry.

  No place to hide, except behind those doors.

  Rickards motioned to his men to follow closely. Cautiously he approached the door on the left. He quickly threw it open, standing back to the side in case someone opened fire.

  Again, nothing.

  Stepping inside the room, Rickards again panned his flashlight. It was a small room, with no windows or other possible exits.. The roof was the stone of the cliff, apparently eroded when the river was higher. The floor was a conglomeration of stone and concrete, though Rickards noticed a few horse shoes and pieces of various types of pottery in among the rocks. The only furniture was an old bed with a bare mattress, a scarred chest of drawers and a battered foot locker. Nothing in the room boasted of anyone staying there recently.

  Turning, Rickards nodded to the other three men at the doorway, and headed for the second door. The gnawing uneasiness which had begun in his gut when there was no reaction to the foul-up outside began to grow into a more acute discomfort.

  Approaching the second door, Rickards again signaled his men to wait. He threw that door open as well, again stepping back out of the line of fire.