The Totem

by David Morrell

Owens, who was worried about his family waiting for him. He'd been denied a chance to call them, and he wished that he had left the office upstairs when he said that he was going. But he'd stayed for stupid reasons, loyalty to people other than his family, to this group of men who'd said that they had need of him when his first duty was toward home. Now he would maybe face a jury because Slaughter and the medical examiner persuaded him that they all would lie about the boy's death. What had he been thinking of? What power did these men have over him? Did he want that much for them to like him? He'd be punished for protecting people whom he had no obligation to, and he was wishing now that with his family he had fled to some new place beyond the…

  Dunlap, who a while ago had dreamed about that antlered figure, turning, staring past its shoulder at him. He had never dreamed it with such vividness, as if each visitation were more real, more clear until he'd wake up one last time and see it there before him. But it wasn't in his cell when he awakened. Just the memory of what had happened, and beyond the bars the two guards who leaned, chairs against the wall, and held their rifles. He was sweating from the dream and from the absence of the alcohol that gave him strength. His hands shook as they had all day and yesterday, and he was thinking that if he could only have a drink his troubles wouldn't be so fierce and he'd be able to handle this. But in a way he was delighted. In his agony he at last had gotten his story, and if Parsons thought that his imprisonment would keep him from the truth about this, Parsons didn't know how good this loser once had been, although he was not a loser any longer. He would find the truth and neutralize the nightmare and save himself. He clutched at every instant, wondering what…

  Slaughter, who was thinking of five years ago and old Doc Markle and the secret they had shared. Slaughter was a coward. If the others had their secrets, that was Slaughter's own grand secret. He had walked too many darkened- alleys in Detroit. He'd faced too many unlocked doors and silent buildings. He'd chased too many unseen figures.

  The grocery store. A February snowstorm. At midnight, Slaughter had finally completed his shift. It had been exhausting, the fierce weather making people feel on edge, causing him to be sent on more assignments than usual, mostly to settle violent domestic disputes and drunken arguments in bars. While doing his best to drive home without having an accident on the slippery streets, Slaughter had suddenly remembered that his wife had left a phone message at the precinct for him to pick up some milk, bread, breakfast cereal, and orange juice. The schools were closed, and his wife hadn't been able to leave the apartment to do her weekly shopping because she was busy taking care of their nine-year-old twins.

  He'd skidded around a drift and glimpsed the snow-obscured glow of an all-night convenience store. Braking, fishtailing to a stop, he'd quickly left the car and entered the store, where he'd been surprised to find two boys in their early teens standing behind the counter, one of them munching potato chips while the other pocketed money from the cash register. The next thing he'd noticed were the legs of a man, presumably the clerk, projecting from the side of the counter, a pool of blood spreading around them on the floor.

  His chest cramping, Slaughter had fumbled to unbutton his overcoat and grab his revolver, but the kid eating potato chips calmly dropped the bag and raised a shotgun, his eyes expressionless when he pulled the trigger. Slaughter had groaned from the blast's impact against his stomach. The stunning force had lifted him off his feet, thrown him past a rack of magazines, and hurtled him backward through the store's front window. Hearing glass shatter, he'd walloped onto the snow-covered sidewalk, in agony, unbearably cold, but worse than that, paralyzed from shock. No matter how hard he had strained to reach for his revolver, his arms refused to move. Snow lanced at his face, and he kept struggling, but he was powerless. Jesus! His hands felt like slabs of wood. Steaming blood gushed from the wound in his stomach, snow landing on it and turning red.

  Christ! Oh, Christ! But his pain, as excruciating as it was, couldn't compare to the intensity of his fright.

  The two kids ambled out of the store, paused before him, and looked bored as the one with the shotgun raised it, aiming at Slaughter's face. No! Slaughter had mentally begged, unable to speak, fighting for breath. He'd narrowed his vision toward the shotgun's barrel and inwardly winced, panicked, dreading the blast that would blow his head apart.

  Then, absurdly, the kid who'd been eating potato chips had asked the other if he thought Detroit would beat Toronto in the hockey game tomorrow night. Still aiming the shotgun, the second kid had answered matter-of-factly that Detroit would. But the first kid responded that he thought Toronto had a better chance, and that had started an argument about being loyal to the local team. Through gusting snow, Slaughter had blinked in terror at the shotgun aimed at him.

  Abruptly the shotgun wasn't there anymore. The kids had become so involved in their argument that they walked away, contemptuous of him, indifferent to whether he lived or died. As they disappeared into the storm, the kid with the shotgun rested it against his shoulder, the barrel projecting upward. And for a moment, just before they vanished, Slaughter-in his delirium-saw the shotgun turn into a hockey stick.

  A passing patrol car happened to find him. Slaughter spent a week in intensive care, then four more weeks in the hospital while he recovered from two excruciating operations. His physicians told him that he'd nearly died from shock and loss of blood. The only reason he'd survived, they believed, was that his overcoat had provided a buffer against the full force of the blast. Otherwise, they concluded, he'd have been disemboweled.

  After Slaughter was released from the hospital, the police department had given him a month's leave and then a temporary desk job to ease him into his regular, hazardous duties. All the while, a department psychiatrist had counseled him. But the counseling didn't help. Although Slaughter tried to hide his nervousness, the truth was that he'd had a breakdown. A nightmare kept haunting him, making him afraid to go to sleep because of the horrifying, snow-obscured image of the two kids aiming the shotgun at him-except that the kids would suddenly be wearing skates and goalie masks and the shotgun would be a hockey stick. With equal suddenness, the hockey stick would blow his head apart. Several times every night, Slaughter woke up screaming. When the department finally decided to see how he would perform if they sent him out on patrol, Slaughter flinched each time he heard the voice from the two-way radio sending him and his partner to a crime scene. As Slaughter's breakdown worsened, he finally had to take another leave of absence, and his nerves weren't all that had broken down.

  So had his marriage. He was to blame, unwillingly, unable to control his temperament. At last, his wife couldn't bear the strain of his outbursts and had asked him for a divorce. Bitter, but not at her, instead toward himself, Slaughter had agreed. Why not? he'd gloomily decided. I'm no good to her. I'm scaring the children. I can't be any good to my family if I'm not any good to myself. Soon afterward, confused and desperate, he'd made the decision to put his past behind him, to go to Wyoming and the arbitrarily chosen town of Potter's Field. His horses were a therapy for him, but he was terrible at raising them. The only thing he knew was being a policeman, and the day that old Doc Markle told him to apply for this position, Slaughter had been shocked by something in the old man's eyes. The old man understood that Slaughter was a coward. Slaughter would have bet on that. "Go on. Try again," the old man's eyes had told him, and the old man had convinced him. Slaughter, with no option, had applied and gotten the job, and he had worked so hard at it because he meant to prove himself.

  The bad part was that he had then ignored the man who saved him. Slaughter always told himself that he was just too busy to go see the old man, but the motive, he suspected now, was that he didn't want to face the man who knew he was a coward. Oh, he was a coward, all right. Seeing Clifford, walking through that moonlit field, trapping that dead boy, and running from the figures near his house, he'd felt the old fear rising in him. Hell, he'd panicked in the field and at his house. He'd lost compl
ete control. He didn't understand now how he'd come this far. His bluff of manliness to all these friends, his arguments with Parsons. They were overcompensations, last attempts to keep his self-respect, because the one thing that he wanted was to get the hell away from here, to free himself from any need for strength and courage. Five years he had coasted. Parsons had been right. In fact the mayor had done him quite a favor. By imprisoning him, Parsons had relieved him of this burden. Slaughter silently was grateful. He had argued with the guards to let him free, but he had known there wasn't any chance, so arguing was easy. But the dream of old Doc Markle had enlivened ancient guilt, and he was caught between conflicting notions. Stay here. It's the safe place for you. Or find a way to get out. Prove that you're still worth a shit. He told himself he didn't have a choice. Regardless of his shame, he was imprisoned. Sublimate the shame. Get rid of it.

  The night was deep upon him. Through the tiny windows high along one wall, he heard the howling and the shouting and the screaming outside. Thank God that you're in here, that you're safe. But he was growing angry at himself, at Parsons, at this trouble. He was just about to argue with the guards again. Although useless, that would help suppress his tension. Then the door swung open at the far end, and he stared as Rettig stepped in.

  Both guards stood now, careful.

  "Take it easy," Rettig told them. "Watch out for those rifles, or you'll maybe shoot your mouths off."

  They looked puzzled, shifting nervously. "You're not supposed to be here," one guard said.

  "Oh, really? Well, I'll tell the woman here to take the food back." Rettig turned.

  "Wait a minute. What food?"

  "For the prisoners. They haven't eaten."

  "No one fed us, either."

  "Well, I'm sorry I didn't think of that."

  "Hey, you just bring the food in."

  "I don't like this," the second guard said.

  "It's only food, for Christ sake. What the hell, I'm hungry."

  "Yeah, but they might pull a trick."

  "We've got the rifles. Bring the food in."

  "If you're certain." Rettig shrugged.

  "Bring it in."

  "Okay then." Rettig went toward the door and gestured.

  Marge came in. She had two baskets. She looked at the five men in the cells and in particular at Slaughter. Slaughter tried to smile, but she seemed nervous, and the last few days had aged her. She had always borne her weight with pride, but now it sagged around her, and he couldn't stop his sorrow for her.

  "Hi, Marge," Slaughter told her.

  She just looked at him. "I thought you'd maybe like some food." She sounded weary.

  "Something wrong, Marge?"

  "It's the woman I hit."

  "What about her?"

  "She died half an hour ago."

  Slaughter pursed his lips, glanced down at the floor, and nodded. Then he peered up at Marge. "I still think you did the right thing."

  "Do you? I wish I could be as certain. Nathan, I killed her."

  Slaughter didn't know what to say.

  "What's in those two baskets?" the first guard asked.

  "Sandwiches and coffee," Rettig answered.

  "That's just fine. You bring them over to this table."

  "Hey, there's plenty to go around. Don't eat it all."

  "Who us? Why, we'll be sure to throw them scraps from time to time. Don't worry."

  Rettig frowned.

  "I told you, don't worry," the guard said. "They'll be fed. I promise."

  Rettig debated, then nodded, motioning for Marge to set the basket on the table.

  "No, I don't like this. Something's wrong," the second guard said. "They're giving us this food too easily. What is it, drugged?"

  "It's only coffee and sandwiches," Rettig said.

  "And in a while we'll be sleeping like babies. Hell, no, they eat this first. We're not dummies."

  "If you say so." Rettig picked up the two baskets, moving toward the cells as the second guard stopped him.

  "No, we check it first."

  "You think we've got a hacksaw in the meatloaf?"

  "How about a rifle up your nose, friend? First we check the basket."

  So they sorted through the sandwiches and looked inside the thermoses and shook them. Everything was fine.

  "Okay, you stand back here while I distribute them." The first guard walked past Rettig, left some sandwiches before each cell, set down plastic cups, and then the thermoses. "All of you listen. Just as soon as I step back, you can reach out for them. Since you've only got two thermoses, you'll have to pass them to each other, but the moment you're done pouring, put the thermoses back out in front where I can see them. I don't want somebody throwing them."

  Slaughter kept his gaze on Rettig. "What about outside?" "Don't ask. All the animals are going crazy. Everybody's got their doors and windows locked. There's random shooting. Prowlers. Two of our men have been wounded." Slaughter shook his head. "We found two hippies by the stockpens." Slaughter waited. "They'd been clubbed to death."

  And Slaughter made a gesture as if he didn't want to hear any more. He glanced at Marge, then at the sandwiches and plastic cups and thermoses. He cleared his throat. "Well, listen, thank you, Marge."

  She didn't answer, only started from the room. Slaughter looked at Rettig. "Hey, take care of her." "You know it," Rettig said, and then the two guards scowled at Rettig. "Yeah, okay, don't get excited. I'm already gone." Then Rettig scanned the cells and paused, and he was leaving. "See you, Chief." "Take care now."

  The door was closed. The room became silent. The group studied the guards.

  "Get started," the first guard told them. "Let me see if the food's been drugged. I'm hungry."

  Slowly they crouched. Slaughter was the last to reach out for the food. He chewed, his mouth like dust, the meatloaf sandwich tasteless.

  "Here, I'll pour the coffee." Troubled by the shooting outside, he reached through the bars and unscrewed the cap on the thermos. He poured the coffee into several plastic cups and passed the cups along.

  But one cup he was careful to keep only for himself.

  Because as he had poured, a slender pliant object had dropped with it, splashing almost imperceptibly, so soft and narrow that it hadn't rattled when the guard shook both the thermoses. He didn't dare look around to see if anyone had noticed. He just went on as if everything were normal. Then he stood and leaned back on his bunk and chewed his sandwich, stirring with his finger at the coffee. This he knew. He wasn't going to drink the damned stuff, although he did pretend to, and then his finger touched the object. It was like a worm. He felt it, long and slender, pliant. But what was it? For a moment, he suspected that it was an explosive, but that wouldn't do much good because there wasn't any way to set it off. Besides, the noise would draw attention. Rettig wouldn't give him something that he couldn't use. This wasn't plastique then, so what else could it be? He leaned to one side so that no one saw him as he picked the object from the coffee, glancing at it, dropping it back in the coffee. It was red, just like the worm he had imagined. But he couldn't figure what it was or how to use it.

  "Christ, this coffee's awful," Dunlap muttered.

  "Just shut up and drink," the first guard told him. "I was right," he told the second. "The food's been drugged. They'll soon be asleep."

  "Or worse."

  "That's all we need. Well, they can throw up all they want to. I'm not going in to help them. You remember that," he told the prisoners. "If anybody's sick, he's on his own."

  They set down their plastic cups.

  "It's true. This coffee's rotten," Dunlap said.

  "Don't drink it then," the medical examiner said.

  The first guard started laughing.

  Slaughter stood and walked to the bars. "Well, I don't know what's wrong with the rest of you, but this coffee tastes just fine to me. If you don't want it, pass the other thermos down."

  "Be careful, Slaughter," Owens told him.

  "
I know what I'm doing. Hell, I'm thirsty."

  "Suit yourself." From the far end, Lucas passed the thermos down. They moved it, hand to hand, along the cells, and Slaughter set it by the thermos he had poured from.

  "I'll save this for later."

  "If you're not too sick," the second guard told him, grinning.

  "You don't know what you're missing."

  "I think you'll show us soon enough."

  Slaughter shrugged and went back to his bunk, pretending that he sipped and liked the coffee. "All the more for me." And he was yawning. As he lay back in his bunk, he wondered if another worm was in the second thermos and if he would figure out what it was and how to use it. On the wall, the clock showed half past midnight.

  NINE

  In the barricade, Altick waited. He and his men had been hearing noises for some time, but that was normal. Night sounds in the forest. Animals come out to hunt or graze or simply wander. Coyotes howling. Nightbirds singing. There had been no evidence of danger. They had formed a circle within the barricade and stared out toward the darkness, reassured by what from all signs was another pleasant night spent in the mountains. Then the noises stopped completely, and the men inhaled, their stomachs rigid.

  Silence in the mountains was something to be afraid of. One man jerked. An antelope or something big like that was suddenly charging down a wooded slope, its hoofbeats thundering, as if in panic to escape what chased it. There was scurrying through bushes, branches snapping, and abruptly the night became silent again, and they were sweating.

  Altick tapped the man beside him. In the almost perfect fullness of the moon, the other man could see Altick pointing. Over to the left, a sound so vague, so indistinct that maybe it was only their imagination. Over to the right, another sound, and now there wasn't any question. Something cautiously approached them. From the forest on the far edge of the barricade, leaves brushed. Then a twig broke, and whatever was out there had encircled them.

  Now take it easy, Altick thought. Three things out there can't encircle you. But then he heard a subtle fourth and then a fifth and howling.