Soldier's Heart Part Four: Brotherhood Protectors World

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “You turned your dog loose?” Lambert actually did a three-sixty. “Where is he now?”

  “He took off down...” She caught herself before down the trail tumbled out. Lambert was on that trail. All he had to do was look down. No paw prints, no dog. By contrast, there were plenty of prints on the plateau and ringing the cabin. “South,” she managed finally, thinking, Crap, please don’t go check that out. “Mark shot at him.”

  “When?”

  She knew what he was thinking: We ought to have heard that. “He’s got a handgun, too. You know, a pistol. He shot from inside the house.” God, she hoped that held up.

  Lambert finally came back. “Why hasn’t he come after you?”

  A legit question. “How am I supposed to know? Jesus, you’re asking me to think like a crazy man? He’s got a gun; he’s in my house!” She let her voice thin to a hushed squeak. “What do I have to do, die?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Take it easy, Dr. Grant.” Lambert obviously didn’t want the drama. “Help me out now. Tell me the layout.”

  “Of the cabin? Uh...there’s the porch that leads into the front room. There’s a door to the bedroom, and from there another to a storage room. Outside of that is a lean-to with a woodpile. That’s how I sneaked out. I went out back and then circled around to the tower.” There, she’d taken care of all the tracks they were bound to see.

  “Are the doors locked?”

  “No. Everything’s open.” And, please, feel free to waltz on inside.

  “Okay. Are you armed?”

  She’d thought this one over. Selling a mad escape with a beagle was one thing. Selling it carting a shotgun and the dog was another—and raised a logical question. Why hadn’t she defended herself? If Mark had fallen asleep, she could’ve brained the guy, tied him up, shot him, slit his throat. “Of course, I’m not! Don’t you think I would’ve shot the bastard?”

  A short pause. Dead air. Through the scope, she could tell from Lambert’s body language he was mulling over everything she’d said.

  Finally, Lambert came back. “Okay, you just sit tight. I need to talk to my men, see how we want to handle this.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We’re all on the trail, Dr. Grant.”

  Oh right, tell me another. “But where? How much longer?”

  “Another half hour at least. Stay in the tower, okay? We’ll take it from here. I’ll be in touch when we’re there, all right? It won’t be much longer now.”

  “Okay. Th-thanks. Okay, goodbye.” Clicking off, she quickly punched up Channel 8 and caught, “...tower. Bayles, she’s yours. She’s got a dog, but it’s small. Shouldn’t give you any trouble. Oz, you got the back. Go on my...”

  She knew all she needed. Muting the radio, she hooked the rifle’s strap over a shoulder then scooched back over the outhouse roof. Soldier looked up from where he’d patiently waited. One nice thing about military working dogs: they knew how to obey commands. Still, she’d slipped a quick-release muzzle on the animal, just in case. She didn’t like muzzles, especially on shepherds because they sent people the wrong message about the breed, but Pete used one on Soldier when they were deployed and, right now, no barking allowed. Not even a whine.

  Throwing her legs over the roof’s edge, she dropped into a drift and to the right of wood and a crate she’d piled as a quick and dirty stepladder. She made a “come” signal to the dog and then set off, hustling down the slope and into the trees. They threaded through stands of lodgepole and thicker, bushy Douglas firs, several of which had toppled to form a natural bulwark. The upslope side was covered with snow. Ducking around, she came to a hollow, whispered at the opening, “It’s me,” then turned and downed Soldier with a flick of a hand.

  Tien looked up as Sarah wormed inside. The cavity was snug, insulated by snow, and nearly invisible. Someone would have to be really looking for it.

  “Tien.” She put a finger to her lips. “No noise at all now, no matter what, okay?”

  Tien nodded. The cavity was just big enough for her to lie on her uninjured side on a nest Sarah had made of spare blankets cushioned with evergreen boughs. Raising her eyebrows, the girl slipped her eyes to Daisy, who was snugged into the hollow of Tien’s stomach and thighs.

  Sarah understood. “I don’t know.” Tugging off a glove, she reached a hand to the little dog’s nose. At her touch, Daisy stirred, but that was it. The dog’s breathing was no different, but Sarah didn’t like that purple bruise on Daisy’s belly. A blunt force injury like that could lead to blood seeping into the dog’s abdomen or some other organ, her spleen perhaps, might be bruised, even ruptured. It worried her that Daisy was so lethargic. Could be blood loss or intracranial trauma. Or the ketamine load, she couldn’t forget that. There was simply nothing she could do right now except keep the dog as warm as possible.

  “Okay, now.” She put both hands out like a traffic cop. “Don’t run, don’t make a sound.” Since she’d carried the girl here in the IPC, she doubted Tien would get more than ten feet, but fear sometimes opened hidden reserves. Pointing to a water bottle, she mimed drinking. “Remember, tiny, tiny sips.” Tien had bowel sounds, but the last thing any of them needed was either a paralytic ileus or for the girl’s guts to go into overdrive.

  “Take care of my girl,” she said to Tien. “See you soon.”

  She hoped that was true.

  Chapter 12

  She made it back just in time.

  They were moving in on the house. One guy, who had to be Lambert, came in a low shambling scuffle from the trail while Oz, who’d scaled the bluff, circled around back. She decided to risk contact, just to hammer it all home because, if she was where she said she was and a scared little rabbit to boot, she would. Turning the volume down, she keyed the radio. “Oh,” she whispered, “be careful! Remember, he’s got a gun!”

  There was an answering break as a voice she didn’t recognize keyed his unit. “Stay off the radio, Dr. Grant.” His voice was no louder than a mosquito’s. “We’ll come to the tower for you when this is over.”

  Interesting. That had been Oz, the guy by the woodpile. Why hadn’t Lambert answered? Maybe Lambert thought he was too exposed and couldn’t afford the time. Didn’t matter. Clicking off, she took her gaze back to the tower. Man, she hoped she’d gotten this right. Picking her spot had been tough. There were trajectories to figure out, arcs, height. A lot of variables, but of them all, time—definitely not on her side—was still the one she actually knew.

  She had seven seconds to make this work.

  Got to be fast. Once she did this, she was blown. She hoped the initial surprise and shock might give her a few precious moments to take cover again. And get off at least one shot. If it came to that. She thought it probably would.

  But where was the third guy, Bayles? Within her hiding place, she peered through a narrow, crescent-shaped opening. The first time she saw that, she only rolled her eyes. Like, seriously? Hank had said the crescent meant women, while a star was for men. She’d never seen one with a star then thought that might have something to do with men being generally of the point and shoot persuasion, a tree or rock or whatever being all that was required. But that was probably sexist. The air wasn’t as nasty as it could be and with the cold, no flies. Still. She wondered if, after a long night in the cold, Bayles would have as snotty a nose as Mark. She certainly hoped so. If not, this might be over a lot sooner because she hadn’t considered the smell, which would be a dead giveaway if the guy was thinking, until too late.

  The steps up to the tower were empty. Where was Bayles? He should be on his way. She couldn’t afford to get on the radio again. Where is this guy? Maybe her angle was bad? Shifting to her right, she eased a leg past Soldier, still muzzled, whom she’d crowded into the corner, and put her eye to the opening again. Maybe Bayles hadn’t come up and over with Oz. Why not? Because, idiot, she suddenly realized, if you are where you say you are, all you have to do is look down and see him coming. Why hadn’t sh
e thought of that? Because now that she thought about it, if she’d been Bayles and facing the tower, the best approach would be to spider to the right across the bluff and then circle around, hugging the side of the plateau where there were trees and then the out—

  A man’s head suddenly came into view.

  She nearly lost it right then. Starting, she reared back, left hand clapped to her mouth to catch the scream. As it was, a thin squeak slipped past, a tiny sound that she hoped wouldn’t carry through wood but nevertheless seemed like thunder. She could hear her breaths, too, rushing in and out of her nostrils. Her pulse boomed. At her back, she caught the scritch of Soldier’s nails as he reacted to her, and she put a hand atop his head, hoping her touch would be enough to quiet the animal. The muzzle would stifle a bark, but not a whine or whimper.

  The man stood for a long moment, enough time for her to realize she was looking at the back of his head. From the angle, she knew he was looking up, studying that trap as well as the ramshackle mess of sticks and boughs of the eagle’s nest, bristling with icicles.

  This was also the moment where everything could go wrong. When Bayles might look really hard and think, Wait a minute.

  Bending his head, Bayles muttered into his radio. There was a soft squelch of static as someone answered. Bayles nodded, acknowledged then hooked his radio back on his vest. He took a single step forward—

  And then he stopped.

  Oh boy. His head was tilted down. Studying the snow? The plateau was crisscrossed with prints and paths either she’d dug or the dogs had scooped out going back and forth. She’d re-shoveled the path Hank had dug to Daisy’s favorite pee tree the night the snow started as well as one to the woodpile, the tower. The outhouse.

  For all intents and purposes, they were what someone might expect. The stove would need wood, and everyone needed to take care of business one way or the other.

  She recalled when the idea came to her, too, as she walked the path to the outhouse, scoping out the best place to hide. At the door, she’d looked down, seen her boots and Soldier’s prints, and thought, Like a roach motel. Bugs check in, but they don’t check out.

  Getting Soldier to backtrack was impossible. Stashing the dog first, she then walked in, walked out then went backwards, carefully stepping back into her boot prints, like that little kid escaping from the boogey-man dad Jack Nicholson had become.

  Bayles stared for a long few seconds. His head went right then left. Then, he turned. The outhouse door shivered.

  Crap. She’d already dropped to a crouch. Soldier still hadn’t moved. He’d even stopped panting as if he understood, Be quiet or we’re both dead.

  There was a sudden break-break from Bayles’s radio followed by a voice. She couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was annoyed, impatient. Probably wondering why Bayles wasn’t heading for the tower. There was some back and forth, and then she heard him shuffle off.

  Tension drained from her body. Easing up from her crouch, she peered through the outhouse’s crescent opening. Bayles was trotting off. It was the right approach, too. They could assume her attention was on Lambert and Oz; she’d made sure of that with her little call. She wanted them to think they knew where she was looking.

  The next half minute seemed to pass with all the speed of molasses in January. Bayles was taking the steps as quickly as she thought he reasonably could, and she saw his neck crane back every few seconds for a quick peek. Smart. He was eyeing the trap. She might hear something, after all. The vibrations of his footfalls, shivering through all that metal, might alert her, supposedly huddled in the lookout, that someone was on the stairs. Boots against cold iron make a very distinctive sound. If she did come out, what would he do? Put a finger to his lips, signal her back inside then crowd in after and shoot her there? That would be the smart play. Until the very last, she—poor stupid ninny of a girl—would think Lambert had sent this guy to protect, not execute her.

  She checked on Lambert and Oz. Oz was just sliding up to the lean-to on her far right. His back was to her and in a few moments, he’d duck beneath, maybe stop to confer with Lambert before easing open the door into the storage room. For a few crazy moments, she’d entertained the fantasy of somehow slipping up behind and padlocking him in there from the outside. But that only worked in movies. She’d make noise or he’d sense something; he’d pivot and then it was cat and mouse game over. She wished she’d found a handy-dandy bear trap in all that junk instead of pulleys and wire and tiny snap traps. Just because a novel said this should work didn’t mean it would. Writers were professional liars who made up shit.

  To the left of the house, Lambert was crossing the last few yards to the northeast corner of the cabin. Flattening against the outside wall, he aimed a peek through the window to the right of the woodstove. She knew he would see only the blanket she’d rehung after that thing with Mark. The cot was there and another blanket plumped up with clothing. She’d even put up the IV again. At a glance, she hoped it would look like a small girl, on her side.

  The problem was she really didn’t want Lambert going through the front door before Bayles made it up the tower because she was almost certain that if Lambert did his thing before Bayles, Bayles would not make it to the trapdoor. C’mon, Bayles, c’mon. She took her eyes back to the stairs and felt her heart turn over like a hooked fish.

  Bayles was at the trap.

  Chapter 13

  Bayles paused on the next to last step before the trap—and just stood there.

  Crap, come on, come on, she silently urged. What was he waiting for, an engraved invitation? Did he sense something was up? She’d been as careful as possible and thought things looked normal. On the other hand, she’d been up and down from the tower at least a hundred times but maybe closer to two hundred. For her, the trip was routine. The only unusual feature was the eagles’ nest. Yet that was all new to Bayles—and then, there was that telltale odor. If he saw something or, worse, smelled—

  Oh. She heard her breath come in a quiet sigh as Bayles reached a hand and cracked open the trap. He paused again. Like as not, he was scanning the catwalk right and left. A prudent move, though he was still too low to see into the cab. From experience, she knew Bayles would come through on the side of the box looking back at the cabin. He would expect her to be there because she’d told Lambert she saw them, which meant he would be instantly visible but at the very periphery of her vision. If he made a sudden move, she’d probably see.

  After another moment, Bayles eased through the trap and was gone.

  Now. Yanking the quick-release on Soldier’s muzzle, she signaled for the dog to come. Together, soundlessly, they wheeled around the outhouse door. She had, she thought, two seconds, maybe three. Five seconds were conceivable, but only if Bayles went inside the cab and crossed to the concrete pedestal and realized the head they thought they’d seen was a pillow with a watch cap and hood. Out of the tail of an eye, she saw Lambert’s back as he came to the porch steps. Gouts of sunlight broke to his left. From this angle, he wouldn’t spot her, even as a reflection in a window because of the dazzle. Oz was nowhere in sight, probably in the bedroom by now. If he came out of there before Lambert opened the front door, Oz might spot her through a window. She couldn’t do anything about that.

  As Lambert swarmed up the porch steps, she looked back and up. Bayles was just disappearing through the trap. Only half his body was visible, and then only his legs from the knees down. God, she hoped he was all stuffed up. The smell was stronger on the catwalk.

  Go! Racing to a spot at the far-right corner of the concrete from which the tower rose, she dropped to a knee. Lambert surely must be at the front door now, must be rearing to give it a swift kick. In another moment, Bayles would realize she wasn’t there. Downing the dog, she stayed him then brought up the flare gun in a two-handed grip the way Pete had taught her—

  Pete Pete Pete Pete

  Then cocked the hammer. She registered the cold lick of snow against her knee, the sharp
nip of the north wind at her cheeks, the feeble warmth of the early morning sun splashed over her right side—and then she stopped thinking, stopped feeling, stopped doubting. Instead, she poured all her focus, all her energy, every morsel of her will into what she saw over the tip of an imaginary sight—

  And pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 14

  This is what happened.

  Rocketing from the gun with crisp, sharp, crack, the flare sped upward, trailing smoke and sparks and a snaky hiss. The recoil wasn’t bad nor the shot as loud as she’d imagined. For a split second, she only watched, mesmerized.

  Move.

  Her thought? Pete? Theirs? Didn’t matter. She didn’t look but could imagine Lambert turning at that crack, the sizzle. She had to take cover. “Soldier, come!” Wheeling about, she and the dog scrambled over the snow.

  They made it about five feet.

  There came a hollow whump that was the sound of every backyard barbecue when someone’s thrown a match onto charcoal briquettes doused with lighter fluid. Her stomach iced. That’s it? Faltering, she slowed, began to turn. She’d worried about this, wondering if maybe she should forget about the catwalk and just hope for the best. Remembering what she’d said to Hank: There’s a reason it’s called fiction. But, damn, she’d been so sure this would work—

  The air broke with an enormous, concussive kerPOW as the gas tank she’d wedged in the hollow of the eagles’ nest exploded. A gout of orange-red fire flashed up and then spread along the undercarriage of the tower. Flaming debris spewed like the streamers of an immense Fourth of July firecracker. Several chunks flew straight up, smashing through the catwalk. Orange flowers, fueled by the gas she’d splashed over the catwalk, blossomed. Despite the cold and wind, chuffs of black smoke billowed as the fire ate its way around the catwalk, encircling the lookout in a bright, crackling, flaming ring.