The Starlight Claim

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  Nate didn’t speak. He hated admitting that this is what he wanted. Hated admitting that he didn’t really care what happened to Cal, as long as he kept his word and was somehow able to stop Shaker from torching the place.

  “Here’s what I’ll do,” said Cal. “Forget about settin’ up the armchair in here. I hear him comin’, I set myself up out on the sunporch there, right by the outside door. The blind is down over it. He won’t see me. You can stay or go; either way I’m going to take him down — but outside, where he won’t make a mess.” Nate made a face. “Dammit, boy, you can’t have it both ways! This man is on your tail. He needs you as a hostage. If he stops here, I’ll have the drop on him and soon as he’s close enough I’ll waste him. If he sees your tracks headin’ out to the lake and takes after you, I’ll just step out onto that stoop and — boom! — shoot him in the back. Not very sportsmanlike, I admit, but it gets the job done.”

  “Whoa! Stop!” said Nate, jumping to his feet. “This is like some dumb video game.”

  “I thought kids your age ate that stuff up.”

  “Yeah, sure: Call of Duty, World of Warcraft. But those are games. Fantasy. And what you’re talking is . . . is real life. I know the difference.”

  Cal squinted. He was getting angry again. It didn’t take much. “Yeah, well, what you call ‘real life’, it’s different for some, eh? Not everybody gets to grow up with two workin’ parents livin’ in a nice big house up there near the university.”

  “Ah, jeez!” said Nate, smacking the top of the table with the flat of his hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve been stalking us.”

  “Not stalking. I just drove by the place to take a gander. My point is that a bad man has his sights set on you and, one way or another, he’s gonna want to make you pay. And what I’m sayin’ is that I’m not gonna let him. You hear me?”

  Cal had raised his voice so much, Nate figured even Shaker could hear him if he was within a ten-kilometer range. Nate nodded.

  “So sit your ass down and let’s finish this! And then you can take off or whatever you want. If we hear him comin’, we’ll play it by ear. But one” — he held up a crooked index finger — “he is not gonna get you. And two, he is not gonna get this camp.”

  His voice was firm. “And believe me, I can see the — whatever they call it — the irony, is that it?” Nate nodded. “I can see the irony of me saying what I just said. Got it. But still . . .”

  And Nate realized something that hadn’t even crossed his mind until that very moment. Cal had come back here to save him. This guy could have sped off into the forest any which way he wanted. He’d chosen to come back. Yeah, he was injured and needed somewhere to hole up. But that wasn’t the whole picture. Meekly, Nate resumed his seat.

  “I’ll make this quick,” Cal said. He was pale. Losing the battle, thought Nate. There was a bullet in the man’s leg and it was doing him in. He glanced at the bandage and saw the growing stain. “There’s something you oughta know,” he said. He was about to go on, but he stopped and held up his hand as if to catch something. But it was his ear that was doing the catching. For an old man, his hearing was good. Nate had heard it, too: a snowmobile.

  Nate grabbed his mitts and hat and zipped himself up. He dropped first one mitt, then the other, then the hat as he raced toward the door. He almost fell trying to swoop them up, reached out to gain his balance, and banged his hand hard on the door handle. Swore like a trooper. Then flung open the door and stepped out onto the covered porch, pulling his hat down tight by the flaps.

  “Nate!”

  “What?”

  “The shells?”

  Cal had gotten up and was limping toward the door. Nate stared at him without a clue what he was talking about. “The shells!” he said again, louder, leaning hard against the door frame.

  Cal held up the Remington. “I’m gonna need some ammo.”

  Nate pulled off his right mitt and dug the box of shotgun shells from his pocket. He was going to throw the box, but checked himself at the last second and handed it to Cal, who had to let go of the door frame to take it.

  Cal smiled. “Five-fifty-six buckshot. This’ll do ’er.”

  “Whatever,” Nate said, and was out the sunporch door and into the blinding light.

  He leaped on the Ski-Doo and stuck his feet in the stirrups. The key was already in the ignition, where he’d left it after his errands. He turned the key, squeezed the throttle, heard the engine rev, and then looked out toward the lake, squinting into the sun.

  His goggles! His helmet!

  He hadn’t bothered with them when he was making his trip to the shed, but he was going to be driving into that sun the whole way. Instinctively, he let go of the throttle and was about to climb off the Doo, but as soon as the engine roar subsided to idle chatter, he heard the other machine, the one coming his way and getting nearer. There was no time to lose. He took one quick look behind to the trailhead, followed by a quick glance at the camp door. It was open a crack and he could see Cal there, see the tip of the gun barrel shining blue-black. Waiting.

  There was a stairway just to the right of the sunporch leading down to the beach. It was invisible under a thick carpet of snow, and the quickest route out of the yard, though not one he’d have normally used. But down he went and out across the beach, which at some point became the lake, though it was impossible to tell where the one ended and the other began. He swerved past the water hole and gunned it.

  When he was a hundred yards out, he slowed just enough to take a good look back, fully expecting to see the snowmobile in the yard by now. But the yard was empty.

  He was still clinging to the chance that it wasn’t Shaker after all, that it was the authorities or his father. He still had this hope he’d be able to turn back. He hated running away, hated leaving the camp like that — in the hands of a crazy, injured old coot. But what he hated most was that this old coot had laid a trap to kill someone and he, Nate, was relying on him to do it.

  How had it come to this?

  All around him was a day of bright sunshine, the air crisp, the sky achingly blue, and yet he felt as if he were right back in the middle of the nightmare, where somebody was going to die and the only vaguely good thing left to cling to was that, with any luck, it wasn’t going to be him.

  He looked back again. Nothing.

  This was good, right? Surprising, but good. He imagined the hit man crashing into a tree and allowed himself the satisfaction of that fantasy for a moment or two before turning again. The yard was still empty. There was no way that noise on the track had been so far away that the sled wouldn’t have arrived by now. He slowed down and brought the Ski-Doo around in a half turn so he didn’t have to strain his neck. There was nothing in the yard. Then the sunroom door flew open and out hobbled Cal. He was holding up his arm with the gun in it, shaking it like a madman. He seemed to be trying to say something. For a moment Nate thought he was calling him back. Then Cal leaned over the rail of the stoop and pointed to his right, toward the Hoebeeks’ camp.

  And there he was.

  The big black Polaris hit the hill down to the beach so fast Shaker got major air, then landed with a huge spray of new powder — and a rooster tail of it — as he sped out onto the lake.

  It took a precious moment for Nate to process what was happening. The guy had somehow guessed at the danger waiting for him and circled around it. Which meant Nate was on his own.

  He pressed his thumb hard on the gas and swung the Ski-Doo toward the east passage. He ducked his head as low as he could to keep the wind out of his face, but his eyes were already streaming with tears and his vision was far from good. Shoulder-checking, he saw the Polaris gaining on him, cutting the angle. For a moment he imagined Dodge at the controls. It was one of their games, and because he was Dodge, he was playing to win. Oh, he’d have a grin on his face as big as Indiana. But it wasn’t Dodge. And it wasn’t a game.

  Bang!

  The sound of the gun rang out, loud. Nate
ducked, then checked over his shoulder again.

  Bang!

  It was Cal shooting at Shaker! Unfortunately, by now buckshot wasn’t going to cut it; it’d have taken a marksman with a rifle and scope to stand a chance of hitting him.

  Bang!

  Picnic Island was straight ahead, not a hundred yards away. Nate veered to the left to pass it. He’d need a plan because there was no way he could outrace the Polaris.

  Crack!

  The sound of the handgun was different. A quick glance was all Nate needed to see that Shaker had his revolver out.

  So much for needing a hostage!

  Nate bent low, began to zigzag evasively, but not so much as to slow his forward progress or so wildly as to buck him off.

  Crack!

  He ducked even lower. Is he aiming at the snowmobile? Does he need me or does he just want me dead?

  The powerful snowmobile had cut the distance between them by half, but now he seemed to be pulling out wide to Nate’s left, planning on passing him — rounding him up — driving him in toward Picnic Island, maybe to crash on the rocks. He was almost even with him now; Nate only had to turn his head a little to the left to see the Polaris, not twenty yards east.

  To his right, the sheer granite wall of the jumping cliff came into view, rising up five stories from the fresh new snow on the lake.

  “Go for it, Numbnuts.”

  He could hear Dodge in his ear, as if he were riding tandem on the Doo. “Don’t be such a wuss.”

  What was he going on about? Go for what?

  Crack!

  Ping!

  The bullet hit the hood of the Doo, and in the shock of it Nate momentarily lost control. It was as if the old sled wanted him off! Wanted to shake this pesky critter riding him, like a bronco.

  “It’s your big chance, Nate the Great. You can do it.”

  This was not the time or place for a What Would Dodge Do? moment.

  But wait! Maybe . . .

  Even as he thought it, he realized it wasn’t so much his “big” chance; it might be his only chance.

  He veered away from the other snowmobile, veered toward the island, toward its southern point. He would get in as close as he could to shore, something you never did in a boat because of boulders that could tear off the prop. There! The last straggly chain of stones, like the tail of some dinosaur. The southern tip. And now around it, cutting it close, leaning in hard to the right, putting the island between him and the madman on his backside. Shaker was caught off guard and took a minute to adjust. Good! He’d probably guess Nate was heading home. Was that an option? If he could get himself back to camp, maybe Cal could deal with the lunatic. But there was no way. No time.

  In a matter of moments, he could see the wide expanse of open shoreline that marked the picnic place. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Shaker gaining on him again but also having lost some distance by swinging out too far and not anticipating Nate changing directions.

  Then Nate was charging up the beach, past the fish-gutting stand, past the snow-covered table and the mound that was the built-up fire pit, slowing down to enter the bush, not as thick here as on the mainland, but not something you could power through at speed.

  He knew where the trail started, the one he and Dodge had labored over during their last summer together, the trail that zigzagged up the lazy slope following whatever natural trails there were, heading toward the jumping cliff. The Polaris was gaining on him. Nate knew where he was going, but Shaker didn’t have a clue.

  Crack!

  Nate swerved inadvertently and his skis sideswiped a tree, which dumped a night’s worth of snow on him. As he regained control, he almost hit another tree bending in over the trail, weighed down by the fall, and suddenly realized that trees could be down up ahead — something the Doo could not get over. He would be trapped!

  But Dodge, sitting behind him, whispered in his ear. “You’re in it now, Numbster. Make me proud!”

  The trail climbed, a switchback, so that at one moment Nate was no more than a car’s width from Shaker with only sparse brush between them, Shaker speeding north while Nate sped south, passing each other on the slow ascent. Luckily, Shaker had pocketed his gun, needing both hands on the controls now, readying himself for the hairpin turn just ahead. He may have stashed his weapon, but the smile on his face was terrifying.

  And then with one more turn to the right, heading almost due north, Nate reached the straightaway and sped up. He could barely see where he was going with the sun in his eyes, but he’d worked this stretch with Dodge — the runway for the big jump. And because he’d cared for his insane friend and hadn’t wanted him to die, Nate had worked hard to make that runway smooth and straight so that Dodge would have maximum acceleration when he hit the lip of the precipice. Blind as Nate was, his eyes streaming with tears, he accelerated, pouring it on, squeezing every last bit of horsepower the Ski-Doo had in it, needing to pull ahead of Shaker and make him come on all the harder.

  And there ahead was the dogleg right. He had to slow down to take it, even as his pursuer was speeding up. And then the sky opened up before him, the bush cleared to either side of him, the verge — the threshold — straight ahead. It was his only chance; he screamed toward it and then threw his body hard to the right, turning the handles with every last bit of strength he could muster, slewing the skis hard, hard, hard, feeling the tread grab at the soft new snow, not catching anything, not getting a grip, sliding sideways toward the cliff head. Nate was screaming, “No! No! No!” and behind him the ghost of Dodge was laughing hysterically. Then he felt it — the earth under the tread — and he gunned the motor, crashing the Doo into the brush and coming to a dead stop.

  And he turned

  in time to see

  the Polaris sail out

  over the edge

  out over the lake.

  Over the rumble of his idling engine, Nate heard Shaker scream. Then he was floating in not-so-free fall, holding on to the handles as if they could save him as the Polaris pulled him downward as sure as any anchor.

  “Check it out,” says Dodge. He’s looking over the specs of the Hoebeeks’ brand-new snowmobile. “Four hundred and seventeen pounds.”

  “What’s that in real weight?” says Nate.

  Dodge grins his dangerous grin, as if he is already thinking up new adventures. “A whole lot of muscle!” he says.

  Nate sat on his Ski-Doo on the frozen lake, staring at the scene of the crime. Like a cat, the Polaris had landed on all fours, but it was not purring or making any sound at all. Probably used up quite a few of its nine lives.

  Shaker lay on his back, an awkward snow angel, one leg draped over the seat of the snowmobile and his left arm bent in a way that suggested that, angel or not, flying was going to be out of the question. His upper torso was deep in the snow, which may have saved his life; Nate couldn’t tell yet because he was too afraid to go near him, as still as he was, lying there twenty yards away. He might be dead. He might be in shock. He might be faking it until Nate was near enough to grab. Nate pulled up beside the Polaris, reached over, took the key, and pocketed it. Then he drove the Doo out in a big circle and came as close as he could get to the victim on the other side of the sled. Through the broken visor of Shaker’s helmet, he saw the shattered remains of the silver Gucci shades and, beneath them, a face caked in blood. Looking at the cracked windshield of the Polaris, Nate could see what had happened: the sled making contact and Shaker — still hanging on — crashing, crumpling. He felt woozy all of a sudden, like he was on a sinking ship. Afraid the madman might wake up at any moment and take Nate down with him, the way a drowning man can take down his rescuer. He edged his snowmobile closer, until he could reach out and move Shaker’s good arm and lay it across his chest. It was limp, dead weight. Then he edged closer still and hit the kill switch on the Ski-Doo. He took off his left mitt. Hanging on with his right hand, he leaned out over the body and pressed his index and middle fingers on Shaker’s ca
rotid artery. It was directly under the talons of the tattooed eagle diving for a kill. There was a pulse there. Nate snatched his fingers away as if he had touched something scorching hot. It was not hot, just his fear was. After a moment, he was ready to try again, although without a watch, it would be hard to guess at the man’s heart rate. Then he noticed that on the arm lying across the man’s chest was a big honking Rolex. He shimmied it off Shaker’s wrist. Then he pressed his two fingers against the artery again and counted the beats over fifteen seconds: twelve, which multiplied by four meant a heart rate of forty-eight. The cold was already getting to him. Not good. Not much blood was reaching his brain. Meanwhile, Nate’s own hand was freezing from exposure. He quickly put on his mitt again. There was nothing he could do here. Nothing. He started up the Ski-Doo and headed back to the camp.

  “You wanna do what?”

  Nate was gathering his goggles and helmet. “I’m going back for him.”

  “That friggin’ killer?”

  Nate didn’t bother responding. He was in a hurry. It was close to twenty below outside. Every moment wasted meant more frostbite damage.

  Cal was sitting in the chair by the fire doing some serious damage to the bottle of scotch. “Think of this, Florence Nightingale,” he said. “You’ll be doin’ the world a favor if you take a good long time gettin’ there.”

  Nate strode toward the door. He’d had about as much of Cal’s philosophy as he could take, but there wasn’t time to wrangle with him. Outside, he drove the Doo over to the shed, where he hooked up the trapper sled. It was just over six feet long, two feet across, and two feet deep. It should do the job, except that in freezing weather the spring-loaded hitch wasn’t as easy to attach as his dad made it look. The process ate up precious minutes. Part of what made him mad about what Cal said was that he, Nate, was fighting the same impulse. Why should he rescue this guy? He couldn’t quite explain it. But when he’d taken the advanced first-aid course, he’d been excited about maybe actually doing something in an emergency rather than just being the quickest person to punch in 911. He didn’t have that option here. It was this or nothing. And nothing didn’t sit well with him.