“Sure there is,” Bonechopper told him. “But I do know that all the hummingbirds are in Mexico this time of year. They only come around in the summer. My aunt used to have a feeder.”
Bonechopper wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging it through his beard. “Them other kinds you said, I never heard of. What a stupe to come in here like that,” he jeered, as George dropped his head even further in chagrin.
Then George looked up at Bonechopper calmly, all George now.
“I think you can guess why we’re here.”
I watched Bonechopper process that, and it didn’t take long.
He drew a gun from his coat, a hulking black semiautomatic, the same as he’d waved about yesterday at the riverbank. This time the slide was not locked open and empty.
He leveled the barrel at George’s belly.
Because George was within striking distance—barely—I knew that he could disarm Bonechopper if he wanted to. Intellectually I knew that, but my adrenaline spiked as if we’d just stepped on twin cobras.
Without hurrying his speech, George said, “We brought the money.”
Dendra inhaled audibly. Bonechopper stood still for many seconds, staring at us.
“Get down,” he commanded at last, gesturing with his gun.
“No,” said George, “I’m not going to hit the dirt for you. I’m unarmed.”
“Where’s the money?”
“Not on us.”
“How did you find us?” Dendra was stunned.
“I know how,” said Bonechopper, looking at me.
“How?”
George jerked his thumb at me. “She guided me here.”
Dendra stared at me, really taking a look now at this backwoods Indian.
“Look,” said George. “Mrs. de Sauvenard is nobody’s fool. You think she’s just gonna drop off a million-two in somebody’s trash can? Which, by the way, is underwater.”
“What?” Dendra’s afternoon was not getting off to a good start.
“Yeah, the whole town of Harkett’s flooded. The houses are submerged up to the satellite dishes. Above that, some of them.”
“What about the people?”
“I guess,” George responded, “the authorities either got them out or gave them swimming lessons.”
Bonechopper’s gun twitched.
With experience, I’ve learned that any situation involving a firearm heightens the senses.
As this conversation went on, I heard the distant spirit-rattle of a raven, as well as the pointillistic chips of tiny brown wren-looking things that darted in and out of the bushes.
“My mom’s there,” Dendra said. “In Harkett. She’s getting up there.”
“I’m sure the neighbors helped her,” said George.
“The neighbors hate her,” said Dendra.
“I’m sure that wouldn’t make any difference at a time like this.”
“You don’t know the neighbors. She might be dead.” Her eyes were speculative, looking into a future without her mother. “She might be dead at last.” A smile crept to her lips, which she quickly pressed away.
Bonechopper said, “She was supposed to keep an eye on that can in the alley. You guys didn’t drop the money there before the water rose, did you?” The corners of his eyes were deeply creased.
“Of course not,” said George. “It’s safe.”
“You brought all of it?”
“You asked for ‘one point two million,’ right?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s how much I brought. Do you know how much a million-two in hundreds weighs?”
Bonechopper shook his head.
Dendra licked her lips.
“Twenty-five pounds. Who wants to hump that much deadweight through these woods? The money’s under armed guard in Chelming.” A town name I didn’t recognize, but our new friends seemed to. “I have the authority to release it to you once Kenner de Sauvenard is in a safe situation. My name really is Tom Webber,” he added, “and I’m a professional abduction negotiator.”
“Yeah?” said Dendra, impressed.
“Shut up,” said Bonechopper reflexively.
Dendra said, “Really, how did you find us? You must have run into—”
“Shut up!” Bonechopper told her fiercely. “Shut your goddamn face!”
“Run into who? We haven’t seen anybody except you two since we left Harkett.” George flicked his thumb toward me. “Mary Two Loons found you. I’ve known her for years. She can find anybody in the woods. And she’s led me straight here.”
Bonechopper and Dendra glanced at me with respectful puzzlement, as well as the veiled fear a proper witch should command.
“Now I need to see Kenner,” said George in a businesslike tone.
“Bring the money first,” countered Bonechopper.
“You want some of it right now?”
“Yeah!”
“I’m gonna open my coat, OK?”
Bonechopper shifted his weight, kept his gun on George’s stomach. “OK.” His finger, I saw, was squeezing the trigger tightly, so the safety must be on. I guess the guy knew himself pretty well.
George drew a banded packet of currency from his coat. “That’s five thousand.” He tossed the packet at Bonechopper’s feet. It hit the toe of his black, scuffed logging boot and lay there, pristinely, on the ground. A packet of hundred-dollar bills looks as natural in the forest as a sequined cocktail dress.
Bonechopper kept his gun pointed at George, but he did glance down at the money with the same pride as if it were a record fish he’d just landed.
Dendra snatched it up. “It feels real,” she told her man. “Smells real.” She handed it to Bonechopper, who hefted it in his hand—a brief caress—and put it inside his black-and-white plaid coat. The white squares were stained with filth, especially in front, probably from chainsaw grease.
George had gained some trust by not flipping the packet of money into Bonechopper’s face and trying to grab the gun, which Bonechopper had been ready for.
Now the forest ape-man patted his coat where he’d stowed the money and said, “OK.”
A lovely pair, they were.
“Why did you pretend to be a bird guy?” asked Dendra, lighting a fresh cigarette with a yellow plastic lighter. White nail polish, what a trip. The lines on her fingers were black with forest schmutz.
“I wasn’t sure you were the people we were looking for. Rather than be confrontational, I thought we’d just try to have a look around first.”
Dendra exhaled a huge lungful of smoke. “I hate confrontation.”
“Come on,” said Bonechopper.
Judging by how intently they were trying to act casual, I doubted either of them had seen that much cash at one time.
We all hiked a short distance uphill, into thicker forest, George and I following Dendra, with Bonechopper last. He had put his gun back inside his coat.
George had told me stories of the miracles he’d seen a banded stack of hundreds do, but I’d thought he was exaggerating.
Silly me.
Kenner was sitting limply at the base of a cedar. He must have done some problematic yelling, because his mouth was covered with a strip of duct tape. Wire cable encircled his body and bound it to the tree about a foot and a half in diameter. His hands were in front of him, wrists circled with duct tape.
He was wearing his bright-blue hiking jacket, and I tried to figure out which arm they’d broken, for Gina had told us about that, but I couldn’t.
“Turn him loose,” said George, as I began to slowly stalk around the tree, to see how the cable was fastened. Any kind of cable is stronger than rope, but this looked quite thin. Quite doable.
Kenner’s eyes were sunken, and his skin, always very pale, looked wax-white. I remembered him at Griffith Park, having so much fun, his body vibrating with intensity about his picture, that sewing-machine leg of his bouncing up and down as he sat on the picnic table. Now he was worn-out physically and at th
e end of his emotional rope. What goes through your mind when you’re taken hostage? I couldn’t imagine.
Crusted blood had dried black beneath his nose—it must have been very hard for him to breathe, his mouth being taped shut: his sinuses were whistling with the effort to get enough air.
At least the forest air was so rich in oxygen, I guessed we all needed less of it to adequately nourish our cells than with L.A. air. It really felt like that. Denser.
Kenner’s eyes perked up when he saw George and me, though his body remained slack against the tree.
I hoped he knew enough to gather what energy he had left, to know that we weren’t going to dick around very long.
He did not recognize me.
“Hey,” snickered Bonechopper, nudging him in the thigh with his boot, “you look a lot different from when I first saw you. Fancy boy?” Then, viciously, “Nobody gave me shit. Never had no fancy camping stuff. You shoulda seen the shit he had in his pack! Stupid tent like a pair of panty hose! Binoculars I can’t even pronounce! Porro prisms. Never had no million dollars! Fuckin’ nancy boy! H’h! Not so fancy now, huh? Look at me, ya pussy!”
Kenner refused and got a kick for it. He made no sound.
“Turn him loose now,” repeated George evenly.
“Well, now,” said Bonechopper, coming back to himself, “how are we gonna work this?”
“You’re going to free him, then we’re all going together to get the money in Chelming.”
Two chunky metal fasteners secured Kenner’s cabling. It wasn’t immediately clear to me how they worked. The cable bit into his upper arms in spite of his jacket.
“No,” said Bonechopper. “You go on back for the money, then you can have him. Bring the rest of the money.”
“Chopper—” began Dendra.
“Shut up.”
He had, I perceived, gotten drunk on the feeling of that deck of bills in his pocket.
Yes, after all, he was the one with the gun, the five thousand dollars, the knowledge of how the iron latches worked—easy to anybody familiar with them, I’m sure—and the captive. He was the super-smart one who’d figured out we weren’t looking for rufous hummingbirds.
Totally in control.
Such a dangerous position to be in.
Just where we wanted him.
He saw me finger the head of my hatchet. As he drew his gun again, I heard a tiny click; the safety catch.
OK.
Showing very good judgment, he covered George while saying, “I don’t like the looks of Loony Tunes and her tommyhawk. Give it over to Dendra.”
I shrugged and nodded, drawing the hatchet, and as Dendra came over to me, cigarette in one hand, the other outstretched, I stepped in close and slammed the flat of the blade into her face.
Chapter 26 – A Savage Place for Boys
Daniel Clements carried a grocery bag crammed full of burnable trash from the kitchen cabin to the unused cabin nearest the lake. This way, if a plane or helicopter should fly over, he could quickly light it to begin a signal fire. As he crossed the clearing, he kept an ear out for the return of George and Rita. His breath puffed white in the cold, still air.
Gina had come back to herself shortly after Rita and George had set off to try to rescue Kenner. Daniel felt less worried about her, which was good, because he was worrying hard about George and Rita, and a fellow can only manage so much concern at a time.
Petey had created a primitive hunting sling from one of the camp T-shirts—stretchy fabric that stored energy nicely—and was lobbing stones into the lake, learning relationships between launch trajectory, force, missile mass, and splashdown. Even though the rain had stopped, the boy still wore his flat-topped brown hat. He reminded Daniel of an Appalachian banjo picker he’d known, a stalk-necked guy who never removed his hat, even to eat.
Daniel turned toward the medical cabin to check on his patients when he saw a man standing at the edge of the woods. Just standing there, a knife sheathed on his belt, his hands quiet at his sides. Daniel realized he must have stepped from the wet woods and waited to be seen. A wilderness courtesy.
“Hello,” Daniel greeted him.
The man stepped forward, and they talked. Daniel had been wondering about the Indian Gina had spoken of, the guy with the ponytail who’d helped her escape from the kidnappers, then gone “into the river.”
One shoulder seam on the guy’s jean jacket was torn down like a tongue, and the knees of his pants were busted through, but his flat-boned brown face showed no distress, no hunger.
Daniel smiled. “You’re the Indian. Your name’s Alger, right?”
“She’s here, then.” Alger’s voice came low and calm.
“Yes, she made it.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
Daniel shook his head.
“Did you find him?”
“Yeah, in the river.”
“Ohhmm.” A sad exhalation. “What did you do with him?” Daniel inclined his head toward the shed, and Alger nodded.
“My name’s Daniel.” They shook, looking into each other.
Petey came running up. “I haven’t seen you before!”
“I’ve seen you,” said Alger mysteriously, but he wouldn’t answer Petey’s immediate barrage of questions.
The two men went to the kitchen cabin, where Daniel made hot coffee. The Indian drank two cups in a row, gratefully, but refused the bread and sardines Daniel offered. Alger smelled of woodsmoke and cooked meat.
“Squirrel for breakfast?” Daniel guessed.
“Porcupine.”
“They’re good.” Daniel then noticed some quills Alger had saved, bundled and stowed in the sleeve pocket of his jacket. The tips poked out like stiff fur. “Can you really catch fish with porcupine quills?” he asked.
“No, I save them for regalia. I never go to the woods without a couple of real fishhooks and a little bit of line. Have you guys been fishing here?”
“Not yet. I’m sure you found the bridge washout.”
“Yeah. I came here to chill for a while and figure another route out. Don’t want to run into—you know.”
“You’ve had it with them, huh?”
Daniel explained how George and Rita went off to try to rescue Kenner. “As soon as they’re back, we’re all getting out of here.”
Alger Whitecloud knew Camp Saskee-wee-wit from his boyhood. “I grew up on rez land over by Portal Bay, but my father wanted me to meet white kids. They had scholarships to here, and he actually filled out the forms and got me one.”
“So you became a charity boy, too.”
Alger looked at him but asked nothing.
Daniel said, “I bet you had to kick plenty of ass here.” Alger laughed. “Just a couple of guys. Do you have any tobacco?”
“No, I don’t. Wish I did, but I stupidly gave it up just before we came here.”
“That’s OK.”
Petey poked his head in. “May I have some M&M’S?” Daniel handed him the almost-empty bag. “Go ’head and finish ’em. What are you gonna do now?”
“Work on my pictures. There’s—interesting stuff around here.”
“Boy, you said it.”
Alger asked, “Where is Gina?”
“The next cabin.”
Alger studied Daniel’s face. “She’s not OK, right?”
“Do you, ah, know any—ah—medicine?”
Alger smiled at his awkwardness. “You figure I might know some Native American healing folkways?”
“Well—do you?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
“But I was a medic in the Army in Afghanistan for a year and a half.”
“Oh!” Daniel then noticed that one of Alger’s shoulders was lower than the other.
Alger said, “Yeah, a sniper got me there. I’m OK.”
It was the kind of “I’m OK” movie tough guys try to emulate after they’ve been blown up by a gasoline bomb, but Daniel realized he’d never hear the authentic
thing.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I was lucky.”
_____
Dendra collapsed vertically, like an unwanted building imploded with dynamite.
George had once told me, “Nice guys never expect you to hit them in the face.”
Maybe Dendra was a nicer guy than I’d thought.
Before she hit the ground, George kicked the gun from Bonechopper’s hand with enough force to send it flying down the hillside.
Knowing George could take Bonechopper—I was confident that he could handle any unarmed man, no matter what inequalities in reach and body weight—I leaped to the tree and fiddled with the clasps. They weren’t like climbing hardware, they were different, so I set myself, aimed the blade of my hatchet, and gave the cable a good whack, my ears ringing with Dendra’s delayed-reaction shriek.
I suppose I’d broken some bones in her face. She ground the back of her head into the forest floor, holding her face and screaming really hard.
I whacked the cable again and again.
George and Bonechopper punched and wrassled. The cable popped in two with a satisfying toing!
In a second Kenner was standing, ripping the tape from his mouth and gulping air. I stripped the tape from his wrists, which hurt him; he clutched his left forearm. “It’s Rita,” I muttered.
“Oh, my God,” Kenner said, his eyes widening.
George had not yet neutralized Bonechopper. The dude was tall and sinewy and fought dirty; I saw him trying to rip George’s mouth with one of his filthy fingers. I was about to split his skull with my hatchet when he went down from a solid blow to his head from George’s elbow. Out cold, for the moment.
“Let’s go!” shouted George over Dendra’s screams. “Go!”
The three of us scrambled downhill—a slippery slope indeed, and I was going down it in more ways than one—to the rude path near the river and set off retracing our way, George and I supporting the wobbly Kenner.
There was something else about Kenner, something dark, I now perceived. Something black and hopeless, a desperation that did not lift when he was freed, though his energy seemed to surge.
The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set Page 86
