by Mark Dawson
Another round went just wide, slamming into the wall.
He hauled himself up the final five feet, found another foothold halfway up, and then clambered the rest of the way, pulling himself over the lip of rock and rolling clear. He was breathing heavily, and his arm was livid with pain. He closed his eyes, catching his breath for a moment, before he slid back to the lip and risked a half-second glimpse below.
Lundquist was down there, staring up at him. He saw Michael Callow, Thomas Chandler, and the other cop who had been at the Stanton RV. He saw another six men, counting them instinctively. Three dogs, rearing up on their hind legs, howled at him. Lundquist had his rifle raised, and he altered the aim quickly, loosing off a wild shot that flew high and wide and handsome. The other men raised their weapons and fired, but Milton was out of sight behind the lip of the cliff and safe.
“Cease firing!” Lundquist yelled.
The firing continued.
“Stop!”
The firing stopped, memorialised by the brief echoes that played out as the reports bounced back off the rock.
“Milton!”
He stayed where he was, on his back, taking deep gulps of air into his lungs.
“Milton!”
He rolled over onto his belly and shouted down, “I’m here.”
“You can’t run from me.”
“I’ve done all right so far.”
“You can’t keep running.”
“I’m not going to run, Lundquist. I told you what I was going to do. I’m going to kill all of you.”
“No,” he yelled back. “You’re not.” His voice was ragged with sudden anger and frustration. Milton was pleased to hear that. He could be manipulated.
“The man I killed in the field. You find his weapon?”
“George was an idiot. Never carried spare mags. Whatever was in the gun, that was it. You’ve already fired at least one round. How many you got left? Five? Six?”
“Climb up and find out. I’ll wait for you.”
He crawled backwards, away from the edge.
“You think that’s the only way up the ridge? We’ll loop around. The dogs have your scent, and we’ve quarantined the whole area. You’re trapped. You can’t run. Give up. Toss the gun and then come down after it.”
Milton pushed up to a crouch and then stood, the blood rushing from his head. He was dizzy for a moment, bobbing down again until the weakness had passed.
“Milton!”
He stood and started to jog to the north, following the slope as it climbed away from the plateau.
“Milton!”
He picked up speed. He kept on going.
“Milton!”
Lundquist’s voice was lost amidst the rush and roar of the water, baffled by the rise of the cliff, but even as he ran, Milton could still hear his anger.
Chapter 34
SPECIAL AGENT Ellie Flowers slept for an hour at most. It was cold and uncomfortable in the shed, but it wasn’t the discomfort that kept her awake. It was the apprehension about what might happen to them when the sun came up.
She knew that dawn would be early. It was too dark to see her watch, so she waited impatiently for the hours to pass. Arty fell asleep in his sister’s lap, snoring lightly. Ellie talked to Mallory for a little while, both of them keeping their voices low so that they didn’t disturb him. There was something about their predicament that demanded the hush of a conspiratorial approach, too. It was as if Morris Finch or Magrethe Olsen or any of the others who were involved in the plot stood on the other side of the wall, eavesdropping on their conversation.
They spoke about what had happened to them and about what might happen next. Mallory suggested that they would be able to have a better look around the shed when it grew light. Perhaps they would find something that would enable them to cut through Ellie’s handcuffs. Then, she said, maybe the three of them would stand a chance of overpowering their captors and getting away.
Ellie wasn’t optimistic. Mallory was barely more than a girl, and her brother, although full grown, was too easily distracted to be relied upon. And she was still cuffed.
Their conversation had moved onto John Milton. Mallory said that she had heard Finch and Olsen talking, that Morten Lundquist was going to deal with him. On that score, Ellie had more confidence. Milton was tough and, even in the short time they had spent together she had seen that he was cunning and savvy. And he had killed two men. He was dangerous.
Would he leave them?
She didn’t think so.
But then, as they fell quiet and the hours drew on, she began to doubt herself. Even if he had been able to get away, where was he now? Why would he come back? What was there to stop him from getting to safety himself? He didn’t know them, not really. He didn’t know her. The night by the lake might just have been sex to him. He didn’t owe her anything.
Eventually she persuaded herself that their position was hopeless. Mallory must have been the same, too. Ellie knew that the girl was awake, lying quietly against the wall next to her, but she, like her, could no longer see the point in talking about something in which she invested no hope. There was no point in pretending otherwise: they were in a terrible, terrible position.
Eventually, Mallory slept. Ellie heard her breathing change. She dropped off herself soon after, but the sleep didn’t last.
Thin shafts of sunlight started to lance into the shed through tiny holes in the wall and the ceiling. Mallory had been resting against Ellie’s shoulder and she raised her head.
Ellie moved around so that she was sitting on her right leg, got her feet beneath her and pushed so that her back slid up the wall. Her muscles were tight and sore, kept in the same position for so long, and she stretched out to try to loosen them up. She looked up at the walls and ceiling. The light was coming in from loose joins between the planks that had been assembled to form the walls. The gaps could only have been a few fractions of an inch wide at most, but when the light that they admitted was aggregated, there was a dim illumination that was enough for her to explore the space. She edged away from the wall.
The shed was twenty paces in length and ten paces in width. There was a large lawnmower parked up against the wall in the middle of the space and, next to it, a plough that was still caked in dried mud. There were several barrels and boxes, the light too dark to make out the stencilled words that might have identified their contents. There was a strong smell emanating from them, ammonia perhaps. Fertiliser? They were on a farm, after all. She looked for tools, something that they could use to work at her cuffs or the lock on the door, but there was nothing. She walked to the wide door that they had arrived through and pushed at it with her shoulder. There was a little give in the lock, but she could feel the door butting up against something outside. She had seen the brackets out there when they had thrown them inside and guessed that the door had been locked and barred. It felt secure. She turned to look for another door, but there was none. She looked up to the ceiling for a trapdoor and saw nothing. There was nothing in the floor that might suggest a cellar.
She sighed in frustration. It wasn’t surprising. They had taken off the cuffs on Mallory and her brother. They were hardly likely to do that if there was an easy way out of the shed. There was nothing else to do but to face facts: they were stuck.
“Anything?” Mallory called out softly.
“Not that I can see.”
“Look at these.”
Mallory had found a box of pamphlets and poorly printed newsletters. The light had strengthened enough to read the titles: The Plot Against Christianity, The Thirteenth Tribe, You Gentiles, White Power, The Talmud, The New Jewish Encyclopaedia, The Christian Patriot Crusader, The Klansman, Aryan Nations’ Newsletter, the Christian Vanguard Newsletter.
“What is this all about?”
“I don’t know,” Ellie said, although she was starting to get a pretty good idea.
It was almost too late by the time she heard the noise from outside. There came the
rattle of a metal bar being drawn through the brackets and then the click of the lock. Mallory stuffed the leaflets back into the box, and they hurried back to the wall and dropped to the floor beside Arthur.
The door swung open, and light swamped the darkness.
Ellie blinked furiously, trying to adjust to the sudden glare.
Morris Finch was silhouetted in the doorway. He was holding a shotgun.
“Morning,” he said. Was he aware of how foolish his good manners sounded? “Did you manage to get some sleep?”
Ellie stood again. “You want to think very carefully about what you’re doing. I’m a federal agent. You know the penalty for the murder of a federal law enforcement officer is death, don’t you?”
“No one’s talking about murder,” he said uncomfortably.
“No, but we are talking about kidnapping, right?”
“You just need to help us out.”
“Let us out. Let me have your van. I’ll see to it that you’re treated leniently.”
“Can’t do that. Too much has happened for that.”
“What then? It is murder, then?”
“No…”
“What else is there if you won’t let us out?”
“It’s not my decision to make.”
“Who, then?”
“The colonel,” he said, looking away. “He’s in charge.”
“Who?”
“Lundquist.”
“What do you mean, the colonel?”
Finch shrugged uncomfortably. The man’s eyes were dead, his pale face expressionless. Ellie stared at him and he stared back.
She tried again. “What do you mean?”
“He’s in charge.”
“Of what?”
Finch didn’t answer.
“Where is he?”
“In the woods.”
“Why?”
“Your friend, the Englishman, he’s out looking for him.”
Ellie felt a buzz of hope. “What happened?”
Finch took a step into the barn. He was morbidly obese, an enormous gold and silver belt buckle holding up jeans big as spinnaker sails. His doughy face became visible from out of the shadows. “He got away last night,” he said, his voice a whisper. “The colonel and the other men have gone to track him down.”
“You have to let us out, Mr. Finch.”
“How do you know my name?” he said, and then, looking at Mallory, he added, “She told you.”
He was a little simple, Ellie saw. She noted that for future reference.
“Milton will go and get help. If you haven’t freed us by the time the FBI gets here, there won’t be anything I can do to help you. You’ll be treated just like the others. Kidnapping of a federal officer, at minimum. You know how long they’ll lock you up for that?”
Finch seemed not to hear her. “Morten tricked him. He said they were in a car crash. He was going to be driven out of town and shot, but it didn’t go down like that. He worked it out, somehow, and he got away.”
“I know they tricked him. I was in the office when they left.” Ellie looked at Finch and saw the faraway look on his face. “Are you listening to me, Mr. Finch?”
He wasn’t listening. “There’s something you need to know. The officer who took Milton out there was Lars Olsen.”
“So?”
“You met his mother last night. Magrethe. Her and his father, Seth, they live out here.”
“And?”
“Milton killed Lars. There was a wreck up on the road out of town. They had to cut Lars out of it. He’s dead. Magrethe was all for coming in here and shooting all of you. She would have done it, too, except I managed to persuade her that it wasn’t a good idea. But I don’t know how long I can keep that up. What I’m saying is, you have to do what we want you to do. If you don’t, there won’t be anything I can do to help you. We have work to do, God’s work, and I won’t let anything stop that from being done, but I’d rather you didn’t have to die for it.”
“You can let us out,” Ellie repeated, but then they heard the sound of footsteps approaching the barn, and Finch looked at her with urgent eyes, imploring her to be quiet.
Magrethe Olsen arrived before she could press him any further. She was carrying another shotgun in the crook of her left arm, and she had a fierce expression on her face. She stepped inside, reached out for a light switch and slapped her hand against it. There were two naked bulbs suspended from the ceiling high above, and they flickered on. She shut the door and turned back to them.
“The man you were with in the woods. John Milton. Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Ellie said.
“It’d be better if you played ball,” Finch warned them, his newly assertive tone more for Magrethe’s benefit than for theirs.
Mallory stepped forwards. “Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me.”
The girl had a gloating tone to her voice. “Giving you trouble, is he?”
Finch frowned at her. Ellie turned and gave the tiniest shake of her head. She could see from Finch’s discomfort and Magrethe’s anger that it was true, Milton was still out there, and for the first time in hours, she felt a flicker of optimism that maybe they were not completely lost.
Mallory didn’t take the hint. “He’ll give you more trouble by the time he’s through.”
Magrethe slapped Mallory across the face with the back of her right hand.
“Hey!” Arthur started to his feet, but Magrethe turned the shotgun towards him, and Mallory, panicked, reached for his sleeve and yanked him back behind her.
“We don’t know who he is,” Ellie said, trying to get the woman to turn her attention back onto her again.
Magrethe swung the shotgun around and aimed it straight at her chest. “You want to know what your friend Mr. Milton did last night? He killed my son. So you want to think very carefully, give it a lot of thought, how much lip you want to be giving me. I guess you found out plenty about him when you were out in the woods going after the boys. So you better tell me, right now, exactly who he is. What is he doing here?”
Ellie looked at the gun pointed right at her, and swallowed. Finch’s warning had not been gratuitous. There was an iron resolve behind the grimace of wrath that animated the woman’s face. She would shoot her. Ellie had seen that look before. It wasn’t a bluff. She had to give her something.
“He’s an outdoorsman. He said he’s been trekking through the countryside.”
“He’s more than that. He killed Lars, and then he got clean away into the woods.”
“He said he was a soldier.”
“Special Forces,” Mallory added gleefully.
“Shut up, Mallory,” Ellie said.
Magrethe jabbed forwards with the shotgun. “And?”
“She’s right. British Special Forces. He didn’t tell us anything else. He’s quiet.”
“You must have more than that.”
“No, that’s it. He’s private. Believe me, I was interested in knowing more about him after I saw how he brought in Callow and the others, but he wasn’t much into talking about himself.”
Magrethe frowned. “What you think, Morris?”
“I think she’s telling the truth,” he said, a little too quickly.
“And I think you’re getting soft in your old age, soft as shit. You want to remember what’s at stake here. This little bitch, she knows enough to put us all away for the rest of our lives. Shit, they all know enough. We’ve got God’s work to do, and, I don’t know, I been thinking about it overnight, and I’m not sure if I can think of one good reason why I don’t put bird shot in them right now and feed them to the pigs. You think of a reason why we better not do that?”
Ellie felt an emptiness in her gut. Again, she doubted it was a bluff.
Finch shuffled uncomfortably. “We don’t want to do that yet, do we? We got their friend running around in the woods, the Lord knows where he is, but it might be that we need them if he keeps causing trouble. What
you’d call leverage. We shoot them now, and we don’t have any cards to play. If the colonel wanted them dead, he would’ve said, right?”
The woman’s frowned deepened into an irascible scowl, but he had persuaded her. She took a step back, to the door. “You get to live a little longer, but I’m telling you, if I hear so much as a mouse’s fart from in here, I’m going to come back and shoot all of you. I’ll be honest with you: I was going to do it this morning. Maybe I still will. You don’t want to push your luck.” She stepped back outside. “Morris, get your fat ass out here.”
The man looked into Ellie’s face, his expression eloquent with warning, and then he left the barn, too. Magrethe shut and locked the door, and then they heard the sound of the metal bar as it was slid into its brackets, sealing them inside.
“DON’T PROVOKE THEM.”
“I wasn’t,” Mallory said.
“You were. If you push it too far, they’ll shoot us.”
Mallory didn’t reply.
“I’m serious.”
“What’s happening?” Arty asked plaintively.
“I don’t know,” Ellie said. “Did they say anything to you when you were at the mine with them?”
“They talked about God a lot.”
“What about him?”
“They read out of the Bible at nights.”
“Can you remember what they said?”
“Some of it,” he said, his face brightening. “I got a good memory, everyone says so.”
“Tell us.”
“‘And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.’”
“Anything else?”
“‘These shall make war with the Lamb, and the Lamb shall overcome them: for he is Lord of lords, and King of kings: and they that are with him are called, and chosen, and faithful.’”
Arthur was ready to go on when they all heard the low rumble of a big, powerful engine.
Mallory hurried across to the wall that faced in the direction that the noise was coming from.
“What are they doing?” Ellie said.
“The truck. Come and look.”