Annabel Lee

by Mike Nappa

  Someone had been here, after the fire. Someone had swept this spot, erased human tracks, and all animal tracks in the process. Arranged the rubble like a work of art intended to imitate the surrounding area. There was a human touch in this corner. She saw it now. She moved in closer for a more detailed inspection, then started pulling at brush and debris. And she found it. A flattened, scorched square of lead fused to what looked like an inoperable hydraulic system.

  “Samuel,” she called out. “Over here.”

  31

  The Mute

  The Mute frowned when he arrived at the rendezvous.

  He’d figured on getting there early, scouting the location a bit and giving the ex-couple a familiar face when they finally showed up at the appointed time. He hadn’t figured that they would get to the rendezvous before him and take off alone.

  Had they gone on to Truck’s farm without him? Or had they been taken against their will?

  A quick scan of the area showed no hint of mercenaries, but The Mute decided not to take any chances. He drove around the clearing and back out again, leaving behind the silver GT he’d seen Trudi driving very early that morning.

  After more than a decade living in this place, The Mute knew every nook and cranny available to him both in and around the Conecuh National Forest. It took only about ten minutes for him to stash his Jeep in an inconspicuous place and then return to the rendezvous point on foot. He came back fully armed, with his SIG716 rifle strapped to his back, knife and Kahr handgun warmly in place, and even his .22 short mini-revolver tucked securely inside his right boot.

  He stopped at the edge of the rendezvous and gave himself an unobstructed view of the clearing. He spent a minute or two watching, but he saw nothing more than a few woodland animals and a bird or two flitting through branches. He stepped into the open and walked cautiously to the GT parked at one side.

  His eyes stayed active, never resting in one place too long, wary of unseen dangers. But the world seemed quiet and at peace.

  The Mute leaned over the driver’s side of the silver Ford and saw it had been left unlocked. He opened the door and peered inside. Everything seemed undisturbed. He began checking the area around the car, found two sets of footprints but no sign of struggle. He sighed and leaned against the side of the vehicle.

  Idiots, he thought. They went in without me.

  The question now was whether he should follow them in, maybe meet them coming out with the girl, or whether he should simply stay here and wait to meet them as they’d planned previously. Likely, if he waited, he’d be rewarded by Coffey and Hill coming to the meeting with the girl in tow. Of course, that assumed they’d be able to find the entrance to the bunker, even after he’d worked to disguise it. Still, maybe they were that good. He might have to come back in a day or two and retrieve a few things left behind, but that could wait. The important thing was the girl. He supposed that having them bring her to him was just as good as him picking her up himself. But it still irked him.

  The smell of smoke from the Great Conecuh Fire still lingered in the air, but he was glad to be back in this place anyway. It felt like home, like a safe moment in a very dangerous world. He looked around and found a great oak tree that had survived the fire reasonably well, still thick with branches that grew toward the sun. It took only a moment to climb into the cover those branches provided, to situate himself comfortably with a nice view of the ground below. If he had to wait, at least this was a good place to do it. He let a breath slide through his lungs and settled in.

  The first real sound he heard was not one he wanted to hear: the hum of ATV motors.

  The Mute sat up in his perch and eased the SIG rifle over his head.

  A moment later six Kawasaki ATVs rolled into the clearing. Three of the ATVs carried one man, the other three carried two. The Mute didn’t need to see the black-clad fighting uniforms to know who these guys were. He recognized some of the faces from the aftermath of the battle at Truck’s farm.

  Not a good time for this, he told himself.

  He counted the men: nine. Only nine. Based on his last observation of this crew of mercenaries, there should have been twelve. Where were the others? Already in the forest? Staking out Truck’s farm, looking for people like Samuel Hill and Trudi Coffey to come walking in unaware?

  The mercenaries left their vehicle and gathered in a group. Two of them detached and went to check out the Ford GT, then returned with a report for their comrades. The Mute couldn’t make out exactly what they said, but it appeared that they expected to find that car in this place. That knowledge made The Mute even more uncomfortable.

  If they know Coffey and Hill are here, he thought, does that mean they also know that I’m here?

  He didn’t have long to worry on that, because mere seconds later he heard the engine of another vehicle, a car this time. His eyes slitted when he saw a black Mercedes GL-Class SUV join the ATVs in the clearing. It was the same car he’d stalked in the wee hours of the morning back in Atlanta, outside of Trudi Coffey’s PI office. He wasn’t surprised when Samir exited from the driver’s seat. He leveled his aim toward that man.

  One shot and it’s done, he thought. At least then I can take out their leader before I die.

  But he knew that was a foolish tactic, one that likely condemned Trudi Coffey, Samuel Hill, and the girl to death as a result.

  Patience, he told himself. The opportunity will come.

  Down below, three more mercenaries also exited the black Mercedes. Ten, eleven, twelve, The Mute counted. Those are the last fighters. Everyone is here. That’s something, at least.

  He watched the soldiers come to attention at the sight of Samir. The Arab started giving orders. He saw him make arcing gestures, assigning certain roundabout paths to certain men.

  They’re not going straight in, The Mute thought. They’re not going to risk missing Coffey and Hill by going in a straight line. They’re going to surround Truck’s place first and then close in like a fist, coming from all directions, cutting off all exits. Good plan. Wish they hadn’t thought of it.

  After everyone had their orders, Samir got back into his Mercedes, alone, and drove away. The mercenaries didn’t hesitate. Four of them took off running on foot, heading into the forest in a southwesterly direction. Three more mounted ATVs and drove away into the trees, apparently moving toward positions to form the circle around Truck’s farm. That left five men in the clearing.

  After a moment, two of the men in the clearing climbed on a single ATV and headed out on the road, following the direction the Mercedes had gone moments before.

  Securing the back lines, The Mute assumed. Making sure no one can sneak up behind them. They’ll be back soon.

  For now there were only three soldiers below him, and he watched as they took up positions around the Ford GT. They were the welcoming committee should Trudi Coffey or Samuel Hill make it out of the forest and try to escape in this car.

  It was time to act.

  The Mute peered into the scope on his rifle, finding a target on the mercenary farthest away, the one standing near the trunk of the car, behind the backs of the other two. Chances were good the other two might not even notice their comrade was dead at first, and if they did notice, there’d be a few seconds while they turned to inspect his body. They wouldn’t be able to find The Mute and react before he got off two more shots, and that would be all he needed.

  The Mute took in a deep breath and let the image of Truck’s body on the front porch of his own home fill his mind.

  This is for Truck, he told himself.

  He squeezed the trigger. The first mercenary collapsed without making a noise. The other two soldiers never even turned around.

  This is for the girl.

  The second shot felled the shorter of the two black-clad fighters. The remaining soldier let out a shout and fumbled for his gun.

  And this is for me.

  It was over in seconds. Three shots. Three dead men. The Mute had learne
d long ago not to think about it more deeply than that. A sniper had to keep his work compartmentalized. Eliminate the enemy and move on. And The Mute was good at his work. He never let an enemy suffer with a mortal wound that took hours to accomplish its goal. He used kill shots only. One bullet and the job was done.

  There were seventeen shots left in the twenty-round detachable box magazine on the SIG rifle, but he knew he wouldn’t have opportunity to use them all. Didn’t matter. He would only need two more for now.

  He waited with the patience of a hunter, unmoving. It was thirty-two minutes before the two mercenaries on the ATV came rolling lazily back from the road and into the clearing. The Mute didn’t give them time to discover the bodies of the other soldiers. He took out the driver first, then the passenger, and did it all before the ATV had a chance to crash into a tree.

  The Mute inhaled and let a moment of stillness inhabit the world around him. He hoped that when he finally fell to an enemy’s bullet, his foe would give him that same small courtesy someday. After the silence, he strapped the SIG rifle across his back and climbed down the tree. He checked his watch.

  It was late. If Trudi Coffey and Samuel Hill weren’t here by now, they weren’t coming. He took a step toward the trees and stopped.

  A crack of lightning thundered through the woods, followed closely by a second explosion.

  Two gunshots.

  He waited but didn’t hear anything more.

  Two gunshots, he told himself again. One for Coffey and one for Hill? Or from them?

  He hesitated only a few seconds before picking a pathway. It appeared that he was needed inside the forest.

  The Mute began jogging toward the thunder.

  32

  Annabel

  I wake up to the sound of voices.

  My mind feels foggy and clumsy. I’m not sure where I am or what’s going on. It takes me a second to remember my lot in life, my purgatory with a killer hound.

  Where is my hound?

  I sit up on the top mattress of one of the bunk beds. After my flirtation with suicide, my senses righted themselves and I gave up that line of thinking. Pretty quick-like, I realized I didn’t really care to be half dressed and freezing my toes into ice cubes. I slid into all my clothes except my shoes and wrapped up in a couple of sleeping bags here on this top bunk. Then time disappeared again.

  When I woke up just now, I was snug and warm inside the sleeping bags. And I was hearing things.

  I peek out from under my covers and check the room for ghosts. It’s been a bit since I last seen any, but who knows what kind of schedule folks in the afterlife keep to? Maybe they been on vacation or something, and ready to get back to work on me now. Except they was never talking ghosts before. Always silent-film actors. Appearing, doing their thing, and then disappearing like magic dust.

  I don’t see any ghosts this time, but I do see my dog. Apparently I ain’t the only one hearing things.

  The dog is staring hard at the steel door, staring and hinting at baring his teeth. Like before, he don’t growl. He just gives his full attention, fangs slightly showing, tail standing at high alert.

  There’s a soft rumble on the other side of the door, and now I know my mind ain’t playing tricks. Somebody’s comin’ down that tunnel, close enough already that they can probably see the door. Maybe even already standing just outside.

  I strain my ears, listening. A man’s voice. Not Truck’s. And a woman? There’s a man and a woman out there?

  The words they’re saying are still muffled, hard to make out.

  “Mdsf just because ydasff . . .”

  “Wrfyfg must you alwffsys . . .”

  Dog lets out a low growl.

  “Ruhig sein,” I hiss at him. Be quiet.

  Dog don’t look at me, but he does stop growling. He skitters a bit, searching for a better position from which to attack the door.

  I drop off the top bunk and, just because it seems the proper thing, lace on my tennis shoes and put on my coat. Them voices are closer now, and if I listen hard, I can hear soft syllables slipping through the metal.

  “You’re just jealous that I found the tunnel and you didn’t.” It’s the woman. “Whatsamatter, big boy? Don’t like getting beat by a guuurl?”

  “It’s not a competition,” the man says. “And besides, it doesn’t matter who found the tunnel first. What matters is that I’ve got the key.”

  I hear something insert itself into the top dead bolt on the door. I hear a tinny “click” as the lock inside flips to the open position. I cover my mouth to keep any sound from accidentally popping out. The dog is growling again, low and even.

  “What’s that noise?” The woman.

  “I don’t hear anything. You must just be a-skeered down here in the darkness.” His voice is teasing.

  “No, seriously. I hear something. Wait.”

  I don’t want to make any noise, so I risk placing my hand on the dog’s head. He gets the message and stops growling but stays tense and ready next to me.

  It’s silent outside for just a drumbeat or two, then the man speaks.

  “I don’t hear anything at all, except my own breathing. Are you sure you heard something, Tru?”

  “I don’t know.” Another long pause. “I guess not. I guess it was nothing.”

  A key enters the second dead bolt on the door. I hear it snap open with a sharp tap inside the casing.

  “Is Truck the kind to leave booby traps lying around?” the woman asks.

  So these two know Uncle Truck, I think. But are they friends or enemies? Truck seems to have plenty of both.

  I can’t stop my heart from racing. I can feel adrenaline pulsing into my hands and feet. My head pounds, but not in the same way as a headache. More like a countdown clock, ticking inside my earholes, taking me to a moment I’m not sure I want—but a moment I also desperately want to come.

  “Well.” The man draws out the word, like we-eh-ell-ll, like he’s thinking on it before answering. “Yeah, generally speaking. But I don’t think we have anything to worry about here. If Truck had booby-trapped this place, we probably would have hit it back at the tunnel entrance.”

  “Okay.”

  Now the key is in the third lock. I can’t think what to do. Truck told me never to open that door unless he was on the other side, unless he was shouting the safe code at me from that tunnel. He said he give me the only key, his key. He never told me what to do if somebody on the outside just came a-barging in with another key—and without an invitation.

  I see my dog bend low, ready to attack. It strikes me that if this dog is about to do some harm, then maybe I’m standing a bit too close to mayhem.

  I step back, back, bump into the table, then move around and behind it.

  The third dead bolt snaps to the unlocked position.

  “After you,” the woman says. “But we’d better hurry so we’re back in time for the meet.”

  “Right.”

  The heavy metal door shudders, then scrapes wide. A large man is on the other side, hand on the knob, shoving it open. He’s got short black hair and a thick, athletic build. He’s wearing jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. A woman stands behind him. Pretty. Long hair, and also athletic-looking. I can’t make out much else about her because the man blocks most of her from view.

  There’s only one second from the time the door opens until my dog attacks. The animal makes no growls or barks to warn of his comin’, just lunges directly toward the big man’s throat. It’s hard for me to look. The woman makes a choking sound, like she wants to scream a warning but knows no matter what she says it’ll be too late.

  The man is fast, faster than I expect him to be. In what must be a fightin’ reflex, he ducks low under Dog’s snapping jaws, ramming his shoulder into the animal’s chest and shoving him backward. Dog is barely set off by that, finding new purchase for his footing and lunging again. This time the man is ready. He grabs the door handle and tugs, slamming the steel into the jam
b before the dog can get close to him again. Dog claws at the door, growling and snarling, but there’s nothing he can do. The hellhound’s quarry is safe on the other side, in the tunnel.

  After a moment, the dog stops clawing. It sniffs busily at the edges of the door and then comes over to my side, breathing hard and angry. I kneel beside him.

  “Guter Hund,” I whisper. Good dog. “Setz dich.” Sit down.

  On the other side of the door, I hear them two talking. And I hear the bottom dead bolt snap back into a locked position.

  “What was that?” the man says.

  “Looked like a booby-trap to me,” the woman says. Her way of saying “I told you so,” I guess.

  “That animal tried to kill me.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe it was just protecting the girl.”

  “What?”

  “That little girl behind the table. Maybe it was just trying to protect her.”

  “What girl? There’s no girl in there. Is there?”

  “How could you not see the girl?” There’s exasperation in the woman’s voice. “She was standing there plain as hallway twins in The Shining, looking straight at you all calm and collected. Wearing a blue coat. You didn’t see her?”

  I feel an irrational flush of pride. The woman thought I was calm and collected? I was scared to the nibs. But she didn’t know that. Nice.

  “No, I didn’t see her. I was otherwise occupied with a rabid, fanged beast that wanted to eat my throat. Maybe that distracted my attention?”

  “Right. You’re right. Thanks for fending off the attack, by the way.”

  “We aim to please.” I hear him smiling in his words.

  “So,” the woman says, “what do we do now?”

  There’s a moment that passes, then the man speaks. He’s apparently leaning close to the door, trying to make himself heard.