by D. F. Bailey
The instant she heard the clatter of tin cans on the driveway, Eve’s stomach turned to mush. She clapped a hand to her mouth to block the scream that burst from her lungs. Too late. She felt certain that if Nine stood within fifty feet of the cabin he’d realize that he now had two people to contend with. Maybe it would improve their chances. Maybe not.
Finch turned to her and held a finger to his lips. “Lights,” he whispered and eased into the front room and stood next to the overhead light switch.
She steadied herself and clicked off the bedroom night-table lamps. First, the one next to the window, then the second lamp on her side of the bed. A moment later Finch cut the overhead light in the living room and the cabin went dark.
“All right, Eve,” he whispered. “Close the bedroom door and lock it with the finger bolt. Just liked we planned, okay.”
“Right.” But she hesitated to close the door. Her adrenaline surged when she realized it could be the last time she’d see him alive.
“Have you got the knife?”
She lifted the carving knife from the dresser and clutched it in her right fist. “Yes.”
“I’m going through the back door now.” He drew a deep breath as if he were about to dive into a pool of surging water. “When you hear me call, come down to the road. Just follow the plan. Now lock the bedroom door.”
She waited a moment. “No. You go first, then I’ll lock it.” Her voice sounded reedy, almost inaudible.
She listened as the padding of his footsteps slipped past the stove and kitchen table. She heard the soft click of the back door opening, then closing. She shut the bedroom door and secured the finger-bolt lock above the handle. It wouldn’t stop anyone from breaking through the door, but it would give her a few seconds to prepare. She sliced the knife through the air as she rehearsed the street-fighting moves she’d learned when she’d trained with the San Francisco Police Department. It was all about counter-punching. Wait for Nine to make a move, expose his weakness, then drive the blade into his flesh. Then again and again and again. Two, five, ten gut stabs until he dropped.
※
On his way to the back door Finch grabbed the kindling hatchet. He tucked it under his belt and adjusted the short handle behind his waist. Then he stepped outside, eased his way across the worn path beneath the back door, and slipped into the tall grass that surrounded the shed. He sniffed the damp air and considered the stacks of heavy gray clouds rolling toward the island from the Pacific Ocean. Rain, he told himself. Coming sometime soon.
From the side of the shed he could make out the cabin, the porch, the top of the driveway, their two cars. Fifty feet beyond the cars, in the middle of the gravel track — exactly where he’d set the wire attached to the tin cans — a hulking form appeared to be bent at the waist as if he were tying a shoe. Nine. Finch crouched in the high grass and inched his way forward. He scanned the field below, wondering if Nine had parked a car on the road. But in the gloom, little was visible beyond the dense shadows of the house, the surrounding forest, and the shallow valley on the west side of the house that led to his water well.
As he crept parallel to the driveway, he knew he'd be invisible to the hunched figure. Nine appeared to be torn between approaching the house or retreating to the foot of the driveway. Finch realized the predator had tangled his foot in the trip wire. Rather than shaking it free — and creating even more clatter from the tin cans — he was trying to unravel his boot.
Fine, Finch told himself. He who hesitates is lost. He snaked through the grass to the first of two stacks of rocks that he'd stockpiled with Eve. He took a stone in each hand. They were the size of golf balls. He measured the distance to his target and when his arm rose to pitch the first rock, Nine righted himself. Finch let the rock fly. Missed. Nine startled and glanced into the shrubs where the rock fell. Finch threw the second rock.
The stone hit Nine’s shoulder blade and he let out a sharp whine. “What the fuck!”
Finch snatched up two more rocks and fired them toward the prowler. One hit, one miss.
“You fuck!” Nine wailed and turned toward Finch. He took a moment to recover and then fired a pistol to the left of the driveway, opposite Finch. Two, three, four shots. He counted the muzzle flashes. All of them muted by a silencer attached to the gun muzzle.
Nine clicked on a flashlight and Finch ducked into the grass. Hunched at the waist, he tried to sprint toward the second mound of rocks but his foot caught a root in the soil and he tumbled forward. As he hit the ground, he felt a flash of pain rip through his knee. He sucked in a lungful of air and scrambled to the second rock pile. With another stone in hand, he turned to face Nine. The flashlight made the big man an easy target. He swung the light from side to side and slowly made his way along the driveway to the shoreline road. The beam swept over the tall grass as he searched aimlessly for a target. Finch could see Nine’s face now. He held the pistol in his right hand, poised to fire from his hip. Finch aimed the rock at the Nine’s head and saw it clip his jaw.
“Fucker!” he screamed. Two more rounds burst from the gun, muted pops fired blindly into the dark shrubs below the far ridge.
When he heard the muffled gun reports, Finch wondered if Eve could hear the pistol fire. He needed to warn her, keep her safe — somehow get her to remain in the cottage. Move to Plan C, he murmured to himself. He cupped his hands in the shape of a megaphone and yelled toward the cabin: “Eve, gun!”
He rubbed his knee and threw two more stones. Both misses. One of the rocks thumped against the driveway. Nine startled at the noise, then let out a dark laugh as if he’d caught onto the game.
“You are so done,” he whispered as if he imagined that his quarry stood only a few steps away. He focused his flashlight on the driveway, fired two more wild shots and trudged forward.
“Do your best, asshole.” Finch’s voice carried a taunt and he crept through he grass until he was certain he couldn’t be seen in the darkness that surrounded them. He dipped across the roadside ditch and onto the unlit road below the driveway. From the shore he could hear the waves smacking the rows of driftwood logs together against the high tide line. The grinding sound of the king tide rising. Maybe it was all he’d need.
※
From where she stood, wedged against the wall next to the bedroom door, Eve heard Will call out to her.
“Eve, come!” Was that what he’d yelled from the bottom of the driveway? No matter what, she felt sure this was the moment. The signal they agreed would bring her into the fight.
She unlocked the bolt on the door and slipped into the darkened kitchen. As she stood at the window, she slipped the knife under her belt and pushed the handle so that it lay snug against her hip, just to the right of her spine. Out of harm’s way, but within easy reach. Then she pulled the curtain a few inches to one side and peered into the night. Utter blackness. But there, a flicker of light — a flashlight beam at the foot of the driveway, sweeping from side to side. It meant that Nine was searching for Finch. So far their plan was on track. They knew that flashlights would only turn them into targets and agreed their best chance was to “go dark.” She crossed to the back door and stepped onto the bare patch of dirt below the single stair. She stood a moment as her eyesight adjusted to the darkness surrounding her. A chill ran through her as she took in the clouds rolling under the vast emptiness of the sky. When she could finally discern the profile of the shed and the edge of the cabin, she moved into the tall grass and slipped alongside the driveway toward the road.
She saw Nine’s flashlight beam angle toward the water and paused to gather four stones from the second rock pile. She pushed two into her front pockets and kept two in her fists. She set her teeth and began to talk to herself as she crossed the shoreline road. This is it, girl. You are going to take this bastard down.
※
Finch pulled himself up the bank, hand over hand, digging his feet into the incline as he climbed the long slope. When he reached the top he checked h
is knee through the tear in his jeans. No blood that he could detect. A bad bruise, nothing more, he told himself.
Although the cloud cover had opened up, under the shadows of the fir trees he couldn't make out any objects further than ten feet away. Behind him he could see Nine's flashlight sweeping back and forth across the rocks below the slope as the predator drew closer.
“Hey, don't trip yourself now,” he called into the darkness. “Hate to see you twist an ankle way out here.”
The big man let out an angry curse. Two, three, four gun flashes blazed harmlessly through the forest. A moment of silence was broken by the clatter of loose stones tumbling down to the water.
Brushing his feet against the soil, Finch felt the loose bark of the chip trail underfoot and began to ease his way forward along the bank. From the top of the track he could hear the ocean slamming the driftwood logs against the rocks as the high tide gathered momentum. He checked his watch. In another half hour, the tides and currents would be running at full pitch.
Every ten yards or so, he swiveled around to see if Nine had managed to clamber up the bank. Holding a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other, it would be tricky. No doubt, he'd have to holster his weapon to grab the roots and rocks that afforded some purchase on the hill. The climb alone could take its toll.
When he reached the second clearing on the slope, Finch paused long enough to watch the flashlight sweeping across the hill behind him. Good. The stalker was taking the bait. All Finch had to do was set the hook.
“Hey Nine!” he called into the night. “Up here!”
“Fuck you, Finch.”
The reply confirmed what he'd suspected. Not only had Nine targeted Tony Turino, but he knew Finch by name. Someone had sent him on this mission to kill both of them. But why? More important, who?
Finch continued his ascent. Hand over hand he pulled himself up the last ridge that led to the high embankment. At the top, he paused again to listen for Eve. Was she closing in on them, or had she stayed back at the cabin after he shouted his warning to her? He couldn't make out any sounds over the pulse of the ocean pounding the shore and the gasps from Nine as he tried to make his way up the rise.
Finch pulled a rock from his pocket. He had two left. When he could make out Nine's profile against the flashlight beam as it swept from side to side, Finch set his feet and let the rock fly hard and fast. The stone caught Nine in the chest and he stepped backward two or three feet before he recovered his balance.
“Fuck!”
A series of three gun flashes lit up the air. Finch kept a running count. Then came a pause. Finch waited. In the distance, he heard a clatter of stones cascading down the first embankment. Eve?
“You had enough?” Finch put on a crazy-man laugh. Let the bastard think he was sparring with a Sasquatch.
“You are going to die, Finch.”
That was it. The hook was set. Finch just had to reel him in. Again he tested the ground underfoot and made his way along the trail to the cliff that overlooked the ocean.
※
Eve cursed, then stuffed her fingers into her mouth and sucked at the pain. Two fingernails had broken deep into the nail plates as she scrambled up the last ridge. When she fell, she dropped the stones she’d being carrying from the cabin. She felt certain that Nine had heard the rattle of rocks as they tumbled behind her to the lower path. Any element of surprise was now lost. But she knew she had to press on. With Finch out front and her trailing behind, they would have Nine trapped in a pincer. Their only hope.
The heavy clouds began to clear and the threat of rain dissipated. With only the stars lighting the way, she eased along the path with increasing confidence. She balled her wounded fingers in her fist, adjusted the knife handle with her good hand, and pressed on. She still carried two rocks in her pockets. When she reached Nine, they would have to do the job. She wondered if she could throw the stones with her left hand and hit anything. Probably not. No, she knew she’d have to buck up and hit out with her right hand despite the injury.
In the distance she heard Finch call. “You had enough?” The taunt was followed by a mad, disembodied laugh. Could that be Finch? She’d never heard him sound so ghostly. Or so primitive.
The laughter was loud enough to carry over the sound of the ocean smashing the logs together against the rocks at the base of the cliff. That afternoon, overlooking Bennett Point where Turino had died, she’d asked Finch about the massive logs stacked together along the high tide line. Most of them were Douglas fir, he explained. They were rough cut, meaning their limbs had been sheared off with chainsaws, and the tree trunks dumped into the ocean. Then the raw logs were corralled into booms, and two or three booms chained inline to a tugboat that dragged them to the sawmills on the mainland. Some logs measured up to ten feet in circumference. Inevitably a few would slip free. Over time, hundreds of them washed ashore, left to bleach in the sun. Only a king tide provided enough water to float them above the shoreline. As the high tide ebbed, a few enterprising beachcombers would launch their tugs and scramble to boom the logs together and drag their catch to the sawmills. Within two or three days they could make over a thousand dollars. The beachcombers were ornery, reclusive free-spirits. More than a few of them drowned when they were caught between two or three logs dancing together in the rough water. It was a game for fools and madmen.
Another sharp laugh broke through the air. She knew Finch was tormenting Nine. Luring him on. She figured that Will was stationed near the top of the trail, at the cliff edge where they’d tied a rope to the young fir tree, beside the narrow path along the line of saplings on the left. To the right, the ridge dropped down to the rocks and ocean below. When they’d hiked to the summit she realized the path offered no choices. You either kept your footing or you plunged over the precipice.
She picked up her pace. When she saw Nine’s dark shadow ahead of her she ducked behind a low shrub. She paused to consider the situation. He was about twenty feet away. Close enough. Although she couldn't see Finch, she knew that he stood another twenty or thirty feet ahead of Nine. She drew the stones from her pocket, tested their weight in her hands. The pain in her fingers flashed along her arm. Use it, she told herself. Use the fucking pain.
※
Finch tugged the hatchet from his belt and wedged his torso behind the trunk of the young fir tree. He watched Nine creep along the narrow turn at the top of the ridge. From this distance he appeared as a dark shadow. The gun hung from his right hand and Finch could see that the weapon was a semi-automatic pistol. With the silencer screwed into the barrel it appeared to be about sixteen inches long. Menacing. In his left hand he gripped the flashlight. As he inched forward, the beam focused on the narrow path. He paused as if he were taking his bearings, listening to the night. He took another moment to peer over the cliff edge that fell to the sea.
“Don’t look down,” Finch called out. “This is where a lotta people lose their nerve.”
Nine turned the beam toward Finch's voice. When he did, Finch threw his last rock and grazed the big man's right knee. Nine grunted in pain and fired two wayward shots into the bush. One of the bullets pinged as it ricocheted against a granite boulder that marked the end of the trail.
Seconds later another rock caught Nine somewhere in his back. Eve. Finch knew that she’d arrived to take up the fight.
“Fuck!” Nine squealed as he turned on his heels and fired another wild shot. From the gun flash, Finch guessed the bullet flew over the cliff above the churning waters below. Another wasted shot. That made eighteen altogether.
“You're shooting nothing but air, pal.” Finch barked with another wild laugh. He had it down to a savage call now.
Nine fired again. The bullet sheared a wedge of bark from the tree next to Finch's eyes. The closest shot yet. Then came a pause as Nine seemed to hesitate. Finch could hear the dull clicks as Nine inserted a new bullet clip into the pistol grip and pumped a round into the chamber.
“That t
he best you can do?”
“Fuck you!”
Nine charged forward. As he reached the retracted branches of the tree that Finch and Eve had cinched tight with the rope, Eve let her last rock fly. It caught Nine on his right shoulder. As he teetered at the cliff edge, Finch raised the hatchet and brought the blade down onto the rope that held the branches in place. A clean cut. With the line tension released, the branches exploded across the path into Nine's belly.
The big man let out a heavy moan and plummeted over the cliff. Finch was pretty sure he held the pistol and flashlight with him as he fell. As they gazed over the edge, neither Eve nor Finch could see Nine's body. They could barely make out the shadows of the rocks and boulders, the heavy waves cascading into them, and the massive driftwood tree trunks sliding and slashing together in the surf. It made Finch think of an enormous wooden mouth, opening and closing, chewing up whatever flotsam entered the grinding maw.
It had been a game of catch and release, he thought. And now Nine would join the bottom feeders. Finch had never seen his face clearly. Was he black, white, Dutch, Chinese? But Finch no longer cared who Nine was. Eve had named him after a battalion. So be it. Only two questions mattered now. Who had sent him? And would another follow?
※
They took fifteen minutes to come to grips with their chase through the woods and Nine’s plunge over the cliff. Eve continued to keep a vigil at the precipice, lying on her belly, her eyes fixed to the churning sea. At some point she expected to see Nine rise to the surface, like a cork released from a compressed bottle of champagne. But it never happened.
Meanwhile Finch unravelled the rope from the tree branches that had catapulted Nine over the edge. The construction of the rope-and-branch system was simple. He likened it to a rat trap. The branches formed the steel bar that flew across the path when the tension was released by a catch. In this case, the tension had been created by rope bound around two chest-high tree branches that he’d pulled taut and fastened to the tree trunk. When the hatchet blade cut the rope, the branches smashed into Nine’s belly.
