by Mark Dawson
The tunnel was about six feet square, cut into a reddish brown rock. Along the ground was a shallow river of water, running from somewhere in the interior of the mine and draining into a natural vent behind the entrance. It was unlit, and Milton saw Mallory’s back just as she disappeared into the darkness.
“Arty,” he heard her call out. “It’s me.”
He stepped out carefully. If he tripped and turned an ankle, broke something…
“Arty!”
“Mall?”
There was a flash of sudden light as a flashlight was snapped on. The beam swung across the walls of the corridor, sparking against his eyes. He blinked to clear them, and when he did, he saw that Arthur Stanton was holding the flashlight, aiming it straight up at the roof. He was at the far end of the tunnel, up against a thick concrete block wall that was topped with a grated opening. Moisture seeped through the cracks in the concrete, and Milton presumed that it had been placed there to hold back a body of water.
Mallory hurried forwards to her brother.
“Jeez,” he said. “Jeez, Mallory. It’s sure good to see you.”
He bundled her into his arms, the beam of light swinging around. Milton walked another two paces and paused, aware that the boy was liable to be frightened by someone he didn’t know, especially since that someone had a pistol.
Arthur saw him and recoiled. “Who’s that, Mall?”
“It’s Mr. Milton,” she said. “He’s a friend.”
“Hello, Arthur,” Milton said, smiling.
“It’s Arty,” he said, still dubious. “No one calls me Arthur no more.”
“All right then, Arty. Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” he said, looking back at his sister for confirmation.
“You’re better now,” she said. “Why don’t you give Mr. Milton your flashlight?”
“Okay.”
He did. Milton took it and flashed it around the tunnel. The water was deeper here, running around the uppers of his boots, and the block wall behind them had been defaced with graffiti. There was nothing else of interest.
Milton led the way outside again, Mallory following with her brother’s hand holding hers tightly. The sun was low in the sky, the fading light shining into their eyes as they emerged. Milton let them pass him. They started in the direction of the camp as he shoved Ellie’s pistol into the waistband of his trousers. Two shots fired, that was all, three if you counted the rifle. No one hurt. It had been a simple enough thing to subdue them. But Milton couldn’t relax. He was experienced enough to know that when things were too good to be true, they usually were. He would only be comfortable when he had delivered them to Lester Grogan back in Truth.
And they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow before he could do that.
MILTON TOLD Mallory and Arty to stay with Ellie and then left them to conduct a careful survey of the camp.
He found four dirt bikes just inside the woods, propped up one against the other. The tracks suggested that they got in and out of the camp by riding along the beach to the east. Milton supposed that there was an easier path in that direction that would allow them to climb the ridge and then give access to the old railroad tracks that crisscrossed the terrain beyond. It would be a reasonable ride to reach civilisation from here, but that was to their advantage. They would be able to traverse the ridges and valleys a lot more quickly than a pursuer in a jeep.
Milton returned to the camp and approached the larger of the two cabins. It was the one that the lake had surrounded, water gently lapping up against the wooden piles that had been sunk into the ground. He splashed through the water and went inside. One wall abutted the rock of the cliff face that stretched overhead. The other three walls were constructed from corner-notched logs, and the roof, panels of corrugated steel, was supported by log rafters. It was dry inside, the water below the raised level of the floor. There were four bedrolls, and an array of empty beer bottles lined the north wall. Milton moved inside and idly flicked the nearest bedroll with the toe of his boot. This was their accommodation, then. He noted that there were only four bedrolls. It didn’t look like Arthur Stanton shared the hut with them. That didn’t surprise him at all.
He went back outside and approached the second cabin. It was dilapidated and looked like it had been constructed years before. A bank of sand had gathered up to the height of his knee against the walls, and there was evidence that it had been shovelled away from the door. A network of roots had also been cleared away, the remnants still bearing the jagged edges from the serrated blade that had been used for the task. He went inside. Milton saw a ripped canvas cot along the south wall, a fifty-year-old military stove along the east wall, and a folding chair along the north wall. An assortment of cooking utensils and pots were arranged around the stove. There was trap-rigging wire, ammunition, firewood, cans and tools scattered about the floor.
There were three shotguns propped against the wall, and, hanging from a single nail, was a lightweight compound bow and a quiver of arrows. Two handleless shovels were near the entrance. A small shelf held more boxes of ammunition and a combat knife.
The carcass of a big roe deer had been hung from a hook that was screwed into a roof beam. Milton inspected it, rotating it left and right. It looked fresh. Tins of beans and dried food were stacked up across two shelves. Large paper bags were full of vegetables and other groceries.
Milton went over and looked at the cot. It was in bad shape, the tear almost all the way across. If Arthur had been sleeping here, in what was obviously the food and gear store, then it couldn’t possibly have been comfortable. And, he thought, if that deer wasn’t dressed soon, it was going to start to smell pretty awful.
He went outside, turned, and looked back at the lake and the huts. The sun was dipping down to the horizon. Milton did not wear a watch, so he held up his hand before his face, testing how many fingers he could fit beneath the edge of the sun and the start of the horizon. Each finger meant fifteen minutes until sunset, and he could manage three. Forty-five minutes left.
Mallory and Arty were sitting near the water’s edge. Ellie was standing over the four men, the rifle steady in her cradled arms.
“How are they?”
“Plenty of threats,” she said, “but nothing to back it up.”
“Who’s who?”
She pointed at them one after the other. “Blondie is Michael Callow. Red is Tom Chandler. The skinny one is Eric Sellar. Black hair, Reggie Sturgess. They’ve given the bureau a lot of trouble.”
“And you can claim the credit for bringing them in,” he said.
“Hardly.”
“It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s all on you.”
“We’ll see,” she said, handing him his rifle. He returned her Glock to her.
Milton was about to say that as soon as they got back to Truth he would be off again, headed west, a job well done. But then he remembered that they were going to have dinner, and he allowed himself a moment to reflect upon whether he might be able to change his plans, just a little, to see what happened. He had no itinerary. He was as flexible as he wanted to be. What harm was there in a little delay?
“What are we going to do now?” she asked him.
“We’ll camp here tonight,” Milton said. “It’ll be dark soon. I don’t want to be out in the woods then.”
“Fine,” she said.
“If we get up early enough and the weather holds, we should be able to make it back to Truth by the time it’s dark tomorrow. You’ll take them to the sheriff?”
“I need to get them to the marshals in Lansing, really, but I’m already so far from official policy on this I doubt it makes too much difference. Nearest law enforcement official I can find.”
“Okay,” he said. “It won’t be a problem.”
“What do we do now?”
“You hungry?”
“Very.”
“I’m hungry,” Arty called out.
“You like venison?”
&n
bsp; He got up and came over to them; Mallory followed. “I sure do.”
“Then why don’t you build up that fire? Nice and big, Arty. I’ll fix us something to eat.”
MILTON WENT to his pack and collected his big hunting knife.
“The deer in the shed,” he said to Arty. “When did they kill it?”
“Today. Michael and Tom went out hunting this afternoon. Shot it with an arrow.”
“Two hours ago? Three hours?”
“Just before you got here.”
“Alright. Good. Can you build the fire up for me? Nice and hot.”
“Sure.”
Ellie followed Milton as he returned to the second hut.
“We’re going to eat that?” she said, pointing at the carcass. The upside-down buck was slowly rotating on its hook.
“We’re lucky. It’s still fresh, although they should have taken the offal out by now. You had venison stew before?”
She looked a little incredulous. “In a restaurant. Not like this.”
“Trust me, it’s good. You got a strong stomach?”
“I guess…”
He took his knife and found the joint of each elbow, working around it with the flat of the blade until he had removed the hooves. He cut through the skin at the base of the animal’s skull and around the neck towards the breastbone, then cut down to the stomach, pelvis and forelegs. He pulled the skin from the shoulders and neck, working downwards towards the chest. It came away clean. He cut the ligaments above the shoulders and twisted the head sharply to break the neck and remove it. Ellie groaned but she didn’t turn away. He broke down the carcass, separating the chuck meat from the round, and then ran his knife along the inside of the backbone until he had removed all the tenderloins.
Ellie was pale and wan when he was done. “Jesus.”
He grinned. “Trust me, it’ll taste amazing.” He nodded over at the supplies. “You see what they’ve got over there?”
She wandered over. “Potatoes, mushrooms, garlic, peppers…”
“Bread, too. And I doubt any of it is more than two days old.”
“So they either went down to Truth and picked it all up, or someone’s been keeping them well stocked.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve been in Truth for longer than two days. We would’ve seen them.”
“I think they’ve been getting help. Look at them. They’re idiots. They would’ve been caught weeks ago if they were up here on their own.”
“So we’re careful when we go back down with them, then.”
“Yes. Very careful.”
There was a blackened Dutch oven in the shed, and Milton took that and the tenderloins outside. The fire was burning brightly. Milton spread the logs out and pushed the pot into a pile of glowing embers. He poured in a good lug of vegetable oil and, when it was hot, he dropped the meat inside. It hissed and fizzed and spat. He covered the pot with the lid and went back to the shed to chop the vegetables for the gravy.
AFTER THREE hours the meat was blackened and practically falling apart. Milton had wrapped baked potatoes in tin foil and dropped them into the ashes an hour before and then he had warmed the bread, rubbing it with garlic for extra flavour. All of that, together with the meat and the thick gravy, was enough for a hearty meal. The smell was delicious, wafting over the dark camp, and it grew even stronger the moment he removed the lid from the pot.
He took the plates he had found in the shed, doled out generous portions for Ellie, Mallory, and Arty, and then served himself.
“This is really good,” Ellie said between hungry mouthfuls. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“The army.”
“What were you,” Mallory asked, “a chef?”
Milton laughed. He was sitting with his shoulders propped up against a large rock, gazing out over the surface of the lake. He loaded his fork and put it into his mouth, enjoying the smoky flavour of the meat and the rich taste of the gravy. He felt relaxed and contented and, because of that, less reticent than he would usually have been.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I wasn’t a chef.”
“What were you, then?”
He searched for the right words. “A problem solver. The government would find that there was a situation that couldn’t be handled through the normal channels, so me or a colleague of mine would be sent in to try another way.”
“Another way?” Ellie said, teasing. “Mysterious.”
“That’s all you’re getting out of me.”
It was more than he had told anyone for a long time. He felt a shudder of discomfort, for it was only a skip and a jump from that bland little euphemism to what he had done in the Group, and there were no circumstances where he would have been prepared to discuss that, especially not with civilians who couldn’t possibly understand.
And certainly not with civilians of whom he was growing fond.
How did you tell someone you drew a salary for being a killer?
“Is it all right, Arty?” Mallory asked.
“Mmmm,” he said, tearing off a hunk of bread and dragging it through the remnants of his gravy.
The girl turned to Milton. “What about them?” She nodded in the direction of the four men watching them with baleful eyes from down by the shore.
“What about them?”
“You going to give them anything to eat?”
“I made enough for everyone.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said indignantly. “Not after what they’ve done.”
“We need to be practical, Mallory. They’re going to need fuel for tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day. Hard work. If they’re hungry, it’ll take us longer.”
“He’s right,” Ellie said.
Mallory shrugged, reluctant to admit that he was right even though she knew that he was.
THE ROBBERS were unable to feed themselves with their hands tied, so Milton released them, one by one, directed each to help himself to the food from the pot, and then allowed five minutes to chow down. It was almost midnight by the time that Sellar, who was last, had cleared his plate. The pot, too, had been scraped clean.
Milton was covering them with his rifle. Ellie came alongside him.
“What do we do with them now?”
“In the shed.”
“And then?”
“I’ll stay up and keep an eye on them.”
“All night?”
“It’s fine.”
“Don’t be crazy. We’ll split it. You go first; I’ll do second shift. You need sleep as much as the rest of us.”
“I can manage.” He could see from her face that he was wasting his time. “Fine. We’ll split it. But I’ll go first.”
She agreed, heading away to set up the tents with Mallory and Arthur. Milton gestured for the four robbers to get up, and he led them to the hut where they had their bedrolls. They went inside, one after the other, Michael Callow at the rear.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said.
“I doubt it.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you. My name is Milton.”
“But you’re not with the FBI.”
“No, I’m just a concerned citizen.”
“Bullshit.”
“Go to sleep. You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“You here because of Arty, ain’t you? How’d it go down? His kid sister ask you to help her come get him?”
“Get inside,” Milton said, shoving him firmly in the back.
“I knew I should never have allowed that retard out here.”
“So why did you?”
“For the laughs. That boy’s entertaining, the things you can get him to do. Still, I know I fucked up. I should have shot him, been done with it. He ain’t good for nothing else. I should’ve done him like a rabid dog. Maybe that’s what I’ll do, right after I do you.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Callow.”
“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into
, you know that? You fucked up more than I have. Just remember that. You’ll see I was right.”
Milton let the invective wash over him, ignoring it, and closed the door. There was no lock, but he took out the rest of his rope, looped it around the handle, and then knotted it around a tree to the rear. It was taut, and although it would be possible to force it, it would not be possible to do that without making noise.
Milton went back to the shore. It was a clear night and a little cool, so he built the fire up with the logs and branches that he had seen them bring back into the camp earlier. It wasn’t as dry as he would have liked, and it hissed and spat for a few minutes, but the fire was established enough to cope, and the flames were soon leaping high into the air, a wall of radiant heat washing out.
He went around the fire, on the side next to the shore, and sat with his back against the blackened stump of a tree. He could see the hut and the door from here. He had his rifle laid across his lap. There was no way for them to get out.
Ellie and Mallory had erected both tents. The Stantons had gone into one of them and zipped up the door.
Ellie came over to him.
“Are they okay?” he asked.
“Fine. She’s relieved.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And he’s pretty oblivious to the fuss.”
“He’s a nice lad.”
Milton got up, took a long branch and stirred up the fire. He sat down again next to her, closer than before.
She looked over to the hut. “What about them?”
“They’re not getting out, if that’s what you mean.”
“Turned out easy, didn’t it?”
“I told you it would be.”
“You did.” She shifted, just a little, so that her shoulder touched his shoulder and her thigh brushed his thigh.
“Was that the dinner you were talking about?” she asked.
“I was thinking of something a little different.”
“I don’t know. That was pretty good. You’re versatile.”
“Don’t know if I’ve been called that before.”