The Starlight Claim

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  Good.

  He headed back indoors with half a pound of bacon he’d found in the fridge and a couple of eggs, the last two in the carton. He placed them on the counter and went back to shut the door to the sunroom. But as he did, he stopped and listened, his heart in his throat. Then he laid his forehead against the cold wood of the door. A snowmobile was coming.

  Jack Reacher would have been useful right about then. What could Nate hope to improvise against whatever was coming? The twinkling beauty of the lake in its new raiment of white — all of this had tamped down the horror show of yesterday, soothed him, turned off the survival part of his brain that could have responded to this, whatever this was going to be. On one hand, it could be a search-and-rescue team, with his father leading the way. At the other end of the seesaw, it could be Shaker.

  Nate looked around him for a weapon. There was the poker from the fire, knives in the drawer . . . that he would never have the guts to use.

  The fight had gone out of him.

  “Man, you are in need of a pair!”

  “Shut up, okay?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  He shook the ghostly voice away. What he did know was that the sound was coming from the trail and not from the lake. He positioned himself at the window in his tiny bedroom, eyes glued to where the trail ended and the yard began. He’d locked the front door and the inner door that separated the living area from the sleeping quarters. He’d brought with him his weapon of choice: a pot that had been sitting on top of the stove, full of near boiling water. He wasn’t going to win any battle requiring brute strength, not with the likes of Shaker. Surprise was all he had to work with. As the sled got closer, he wondered if Shaker would go to the Hoebeeks’ first, assuming Nate was there. Then the noise got really loud and his question was answered. Any second now he’d appear. . . .

  But it wasn’t Shaker.

  Carrying the pot back to the kitchen, Nate checked out the side window to where Cal Crow had brought his snowmobile to a stop within a couple steps of the stoop. Nate watched him try to stand on the runners, leaning hard on the handlebars for support. He turned slowly, stepped down into the depth of snow, and just stood there, as if he’d stepped into a vat of cement. His left leg appeared damp, the fabric of his snowsuit torn — punctured — halfway down his inner thigh.

  Nate raced to the door, plunged his feet back into his gum boots, and tore out to the stoop. He’d left the shutters from the Hoebeeks’ place against the wall beside the back door. Now he took one of the larger ones and laid it down across the snow.

  Cal looked at him, saw what he was doing. He tore off his ski mask and shoved it in his pocket, nodded toward the plywood board, but still couldn’t move. Nate stepped out onto the shutter.

  “Just fall forward,” said Nate. “I’ll get you.” And without a word, Cal did as he was told. He fell and the upper part of his body landed on the plywood, which he grappled with the way a swimmer shimmies his way onto a raft. Nate tried to help but the old man growled at him — or at the pain he was obviously in. As soon as he was aboard, he rose to his knees — his right knee, at least — and crawled, dragging his left leg toward the stoop, where Nate helped him to his feet, took him under his shoulder, and helped him inside.

  “Leave me alone!” the old man said, swatting at him, but Nate had an end goal in sight; he’d already pushed the table out of the way and dragged the largest of the armchairs over near the woodstove. Fending off the swats and curses, he finally was able to dump Cal down into the chair.

  “Jeezus H. Christ!” Cal shouted. “You damn near kilt me!”

  He leaned back breathing hard. He wrestled the zipper of his parka down with what must have been his last bit of energy, because the next thing Nate knew the man was sitting completely still, his dark head against the head rest, the muscles on his scrawny neck standing out like cables. Nate stood a couple of paces away, catching his breath, watching the pain animate his grandfather’s face. His arms lay at rest on the arms of the chair, his fists curled not quite tight. Nate watched, waiting for him to succumb — to just die, right there. When he didn’t, Nate mobilized again and headed toward the back room.

  “Where the hell you goin’?” the man shouted.

  “There’s a first-aid kit,” said Nate.

  “Don’t first-aid me. I’ll tell ya what I need. But I can just bet your damn father don’t hold with alcohol.”

  Nate stood over by the door to the sleeping section, not sure what to do. Maybe take one of the cast-iron frying pans he’d been about to use and put the old coot out of his misery. Instead, he turned to the open cupboards that lined the north wall to the left of the doorway into the bedrooms. He pushed aside some cans and canisters until he found what he was after.

  “Here,” he said.

  Cal didn’t open his eyes right off. Then he did — one of them — and tried to focus on what Nate was holding. A bottle about a quarter full of Johnnie Walker.

  “The Lord be praised,” Cal muttered, and reached out with a feeble hand for the booze. Nate unscrewed the top for him. He handed him a glass, which Cal waved away. Then Nate went to the back room. He checked the window first, opened it to see if he could hear another sled approaching. No. He shut the window and grabbed the first-aid kit.

  Cal tried to wave him off again, but he seemed distracted enough by the whisky to let Nate kneel in front of him and try to get a look at what was under the bloody hole in the overalls.

  “You’re going to need to get out of them,” he said.

  Cal told him to screw off. Nate waited. The old man took another swig of the whisky, his hand so shaky that a trickle escaped down the side of his unshaven chin.

  “I could cut them off,” said Nate.

  “I’ll cut you off, boy.”

  “Okay,” said Nate, and got to his feet. “I think I’m going to go change.”

  He was gone less than five minutes, but when he returned the man was asleep. The bottle was empty, though he still held it by the neck, cradled in his lap. Nate could see fresh blood seeping from the wound on his leg, but there was nothing he could do. He went to the window, looked out at the snowmobile. He hadn’t noticed at first that it was his father’s Ski-Doo. When Cal arrived two days ago, he had been on a different sled, a big Sidewinder. What had happened? There were a lot of unanswered questions, some of them more pressing than others. Like how far were Shaker and Beck behind him? Who shot him? And if it was Shaker, did he have his eyes on Nate for his next victim? He was pretty sure it was a gunshot wound. In his mind’s eye, he could see that weapon Shaker had been waving around yesterday, and something told him that it wouldn’t have been too long before it went off.

  “You still here?”

  Nate walked over to the old man and looked down at him. “How you feeling?”

  “Like I don’t plan on dancin’ tonight,” said Cal.

  “Are they coming back?”

  Cal made a sour face. “Beck, not likely. On account of being dead . . . well, maybe.” He shook his head. “I dunno. Sure made a lot of noise when he went down.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “Shaker?” Cal waved at the air. “He hied off who knows where.” He sniffed. “You got any more of this here medicine?”

  Nate hesitated, then shook his head.

  “Yeah, you do, boy,” said Cal. He hadn’t missed the fractional moment of indecision. “Now you go get it for your old granddaddy.”

  There was an unopened bottle of whisky tucked away. His father didn’t drink much, a beer or two on a hot day. But they always had something on hand in case company dropped by. Art Hoebeek liked a snoot full, as he put it.

  “Ya hear me, boy?”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” said Nate.

  “Hah! You think this is some kinda game show?”

  “No wonder Dad never had you around for Sunday dinner,” said Nate. Cal sneered. No wonder Burl never even mentioned his name. The man was just plain foul. Still, for
some reason, Nate found it all weirdly amusing. “Two things,” he said.

  That got Cal’s attention. He stared at Nate through eyes that looked like they hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. “Two things?” he said.

  Nate held up his hand with two fingers extended. “Two things,” he repeated.

  The old man couldn’t seem to quite believe what was happening, judging from the surprise on his face. He tried to knock Nate over with his eyes. Failed. Tried to reach out and grab him, but the Johnnie Walker had made him slow and Nate easily stepped back out of reach. Finally, the old man spoke again. “Okay, shoot.”

  “First,” said Nate, “you call me by my name.”

  “Oh, f —”

  “It’s Nate, in case you forgot. I’m not ‘boy’ or ‘kid.’ You want something, you ask nicely.”

  If his wound wasn’t about to kill the old man, Nate’s demand seemed like it might. He swore some, mostly under his breath.

  “Okay, Nate,” he finally said. “And . . . ?”

  “And second, you get out of those pants.”

  “What the —”

  “So I can see what’s going on with your leg.”

  The swearing this time was riper, and if God was at work today — it being Sunday — he got an earful, a fair bit of it aimed his way, but not exclusively; both of Nate’s parents fared pretty badly in Cal’s assessment of the work they’d been doing bringing up their son. But finally he ran out of steam. He closed his eyes. His breath was ragged. He was fighting hard. He opened one eye.

  “Ya still here?” he said. “I was havin’ this nightmare. . . .”

  Nate didn’t bother to answer. The amusement value was running low. And he didn’t like the idea that Shaker was still at large. He must have gotten something across with the bitter expression on his face, because the old man reached up and undid the top of his bib and then, with a lot of pain and the language to go with it, stripped off his overalls until they puddled at his feet. Nate grimaced at the sight of the old man’s boxers. Wondered what decade he’d last changed them.

  The exertion needed to strip down helped to knock some of the noise out of Cal. He leaned back in the chair again, looking vulnerable, looking spent. And with his skinny legs exposed, he suddenly looked very, very old. Nate focused on the wound. It was on the inside of his left thigh, about halfway between crotch and knobby knee. Any thought that the wound was made by anything other than a bullet disappeared as soon as Nate laid eyes on it. The perforation of the skin was perfectly round, exposing the raw red of muscle. He couldn’t see a bullet. Gently, he moved the leg inward and peered at the outer side of Cal’s thigh. No sign of an exit wound. So the bullet was in there. But there was no way he was going in with tweezers. It was still oozing, the heart pumping blood to the site.

  “I’m going to have to raise your leg,” he said.

  When Cal didn’t answer, Nate glanced at his face. The old man simply nodded. Nate got a couple of pillows and draped a couple of towels over them on a kitchen chair. Cal cried out when Nate lifted the leg, but he was too weak to shake the boy off, and soon enough Nate had Cal’s wounded limb up higher than his heart. It didn’t seem like it would be enough. In his parents’ room, he found an old worn belt of his dad’s. When he got back, his patient’s eyes were closed. Good. Carefully, he wrapped the belt around Cal’s upper thigh, cinched it, and then slowly tightened it. He didn’t get far before the old man exploded with pain, swatting at Nate and hurling every expletive Nate had ever heard and some new ones, too. Then he fell back against the chair, spent, and after a moment drifted off again.

  Okay, thought Nate. So much for a tourniquet.

  Which is when he noticed the burn marks. He’d been concentrating on the new wound, livid and bright as an angry bull’s eye. Now he saw the curdled skin that marked pretty much the entire outer side of the man’s other leg. The hair growth was patchy; there were some areas that were yellow, with a texture like parchment. Nate could see similar marks on the left leg as well. Fire damage. As little as he knew about this man, he knew where he got these wounds. Same place his dad did. On this very spot: the camp that used to sit right here before Cal burned it to the ground. His eyes traveled to the man’s face. He was awake again, observing Nate, but his lips were clamped tightly shut. This wasn’t a time for a chat. Nate snapped his attention back to the bullet wound.

  Elevating the leg seemed to have slowed down the hemorrhaging a little, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. He felt Cal’s foot. It was cool, even near the fire. He looked around; the old man was watching him with one beady eye. “Wiggle your toes,” said Nate. Cal wiggled his toes. Nate nodded. “Good. You’ve still got some sensation down there.”

  “You’re gonna get some sensation you try wrappin’ a belt ’round me again.”

  Nate stared at him. “You want to die? That can be arranged.”

  Cal almost smiled. “Get on with it,” he said.

  Nate nodded. He needed to wash out the wound. He didn’t think this was going to go over too well.

  “This is going to sting,” he said, and didn’t wait for Cal’s response as he poured hydrogen peroxide over the wound. Cal flinched, but this time held his tongue. Then Nate tore open with his teeth an antiseptic wipe and patted down the area around the bullet hole. There was antibiotic ointment in the kit as well; that came next, and then, as rapidly as he could make it happen, two absorbent compresses, with adhesive tape to hold them in place. Finally, a four-inch-wide roller bandage wrapped as tightly as Nate dared around the thigh, without cutting off circulation.

  He stared at the job, leaning back on his haunches.

  “You study first aid?” said Cal, his voice modulated and calmer now. Nate nodded. “Your daddy make you do that?” Nate looked at him warily. He nodded again.

  “Yeah,” said Cal, closing his eyes. “’Spected as much.” Even in his injured state, he managed to imbue those few words with scorn.

  Nate cleared up the mess on the floor as best as he could. Cal had gone quiet. The bullet was in there; who knew what damage it was causing. But there was nothing else Nate could do. He turned away, opened the top of the Ashley, and threw in whatever of the trash would burn.

  “What about your part of the bargain?” said Cal.

  Nate turned. “What’s that?”

  Cal managed a tight little smile as he tilted his hand, thumb up, toward his open mouth. “Glug, glug, glug.”

  “Oh, right,” Nate said, and went to find the unopened bottle of scotch.

  “What happened?”

  Nate sat staring at Cal, who was awake again after having drifted off for half an hour. He glanced at Nate and then his eyes strayed to the glass on the wide, flat arm of the chair. Nate had only given him a glass of scotch from the new bottle, afraid he might drink the whole thing, and then where would they be? Cal’s gaze lifted to Nate hopefully, but Nate showed no sign of interpreting the look Cal was giving him. And so Cal began.

  “Ambush.”

  “An ambush?”

  “That’s what I said. Cops.”

  “Whoa! Maybe you’d better start at the beginning.”

  The escaped convicts had followed Cal Crow to the Branigan logging camp. There was no one there to meet them. The place was closed down, locked up. They broke in and waited.

  “You know how well Shaker takes to waitin’,” said Cal. He shook his head. “I shoulda guessed somethin’ was up. Shoulda been able to tell from the way Beck was actin’. Kept apologizin’ for how long it was takin’. ‘Well, what’d you expect?’ he’d say. ‘I mean, it’s only a few hours since I talked to them,’ and blah, blah, blah.” Cal frowned. “It’s always the one who talks too much got something bad hid up his sleeve.” He shook his head. “At first, I figured he was on edge because Shaker was working himself into one of his frenzies, pacing back and forth, wearing out the floorboards, building up a real head of steam. He’s a mean bugger behind all his fancy language. When he’s on edge, anybody in their
right mind oughta be on edge. That’s what I was thinkin’.”

  “Who was supposed to be coming?”

  “The mob. The boys are well connected, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean like gangsters? The Mafia?”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever. The folks in these parts who run the gambling operations, loan sharkin’, extortion, drugs — you name it. Gangbangers.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “The ones broke the lads out of jail. Like I said, well connected. Beck is a hustler. They’re a dime a dozen. It wasn’t him they wanted. Shaker, on the other hand, is valuable to those folks. He’ll do people for you. That’s what he was in for.”

  “You mean kill people?”

  Cal nodded. Raised his hand, index finger out like a gun barrel. “Bang!” he said.

  It wasn’t anything Nate really wanted to hear. “A hit man,” he said.

  Cal nodded. “Probably more than a few, but they was only ever able to pin one on him that stuck. Some scuzzbag whose leaving the earth has made it a better place. Thing is, it’s still a capital offense. Don’t you just love democracy?” Cal wagged his head with disgust, and Nate wondered at how Cal could manage to have ideals about wrong and right. “Anyway, the mob wanted Shaker back; he’s as crazy as a rat in a garbage can, but, like I said, he’s useful. And Beck . . . Well, he happened to be in the same jail, so it was a twofer.”

  “A twofer . . .”

  Cal’s eyes rolled. “Two for one.”

  “Right.” Nate was struggling to keep up. “So the ambush . . .”

  “Didn’t see it comin’,” said Cal. He tried to move, make himself more comfortable, but ended up groaning in agony at the attempt. “Christ, what ’d you do to me?” he shouted.

  “While you were sleeping, I shoved a bullet into this handy hole in your leg,” said Nate.