Kyrill yanked the stock to its full extension, seated it into his shoulder, and peered through the scope at the sky.
If this gun was anything like the others Tom had seen, it was too powerful to shoot like a normal hunting rifle, a .30-06, say.The manufacturer provided a bipod at the base of the barrel, designed to stabilize the heavy weapon and minimize its recoil. He wondered how experienced this boy was with it. He hoped not to find out.
Showing a toothy grin, Bad was appraising a weapon even more exotic. It looked like something from a space movie: a plank of rectangular metal with a grip and trigger extending from the center of one of the narrow sides; on the other side, opposite the trigger, was a handle that appeared to contain a built-in scope. Bad looked up. He saw the group of townies and stiffened. He pulled the weapon in close to his chest and turned his torso so one end of the gun pointed at them.
Declan waved his pistol at the kids and adults, as if in greeting. When they stopped, Tom said, “You better come on over. Do what they say.”
“What have you done to Tom?” one of them yelled.
Declan sauntered to the woman, who took a step back. He leaned his shoulder against hers, whispered in her ear. Her eyes widened and her skin paled noticeably in the brightening morning light. Declan kissed the air between them, then took in each face, one at a time, making sure they understood his intentions. He ordered the group to the community center. He watched them go, one hip cocked, apparently feeling pretty good about himself.
The girl approached him, affecting the same sauntering gait, and she put her arm around his waist. They kissed. When their faces parted, she melted into him, notching herself into the shape of his side.
“A place like this, you guys must play a lot of video games,” Declan told Tom.
“We find better things to do. Lots of outdoor things.”
Declan looked surprised. “Like what?”
“Family outings . . . touch football, picnics, hide-and-seek. Hiking, camping, boating, off-roading, bird watching, fishing, hunting . . .”
“I like hunting,” Declan said.
Tom studied his face. “Animals,” he clarified.
The younger man nodded.
“Rabbit, coyote, sheep, caribou.”
Declan gazed south down Provincial, seeming to cast his vision beyond Dirty Woman Park, over the wide span of water, to the rolling green and gold hills on the far side.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s something I could do.What do you think? Wanna try that, Cort?”
“Sure.”
“Later,” he said. “After we take care of other business.”
The way Declan looked at him made Tom’s guts feel like soup.
6
The pilot brought the JetRanger down in a meadow of tall green and yellow turf. Hutch watched the grass sway in the propeller’s downdraft like the hair of a girl swimming in a strong current. The way it strained away from the helicopter in a large, vibrating circle, he could imagine it trying to flee from the bellowing contraption invading its peace. In the distance a rabbit bounced up and disappeared into the woods.
The pilot—named Franklin, Hutch remembered—switched off the engine and inverted various other toggles on the center console. The roar and bluster they had grown accustomed to diminished like a dragon’s dying breath.
Hutch patted Franklin’s shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up.The man returned the gesture.
“Yeah, baby!”Terry said in a passable imitation of Austin Powers.
David opened a rear door. Cool wind blew in, bringing with it swirling bits of grass, leaves, granules of dirt—and something else, a fragrance. Musky and floral and clean, Hutch didn’t know if it was earth or trees or water or animals or more likely a sort of aura derived from all of them over eons, but he did know it was wonderful. It smelled like freedom, the way the world must have smelled when it was new. All of them sensed it. They were taking in lungfuls through their nostrils.David sniffed the air like a dog, his eyes closed, the mere hint of a smile on his lips. Terry and Phil leaned toward the open door, seemingly unconscious of their posture.
Then the dying engine backfired. A plume of smoke, reeking of oil, blew in.
Terry coughed and waved his hand in front of his face.
David hopped out. He moved twenty paces into the meadow, out from under the slowing blades and away from the engine’s fumes.
Phil found the handle that opened the door beside him. He slid down, leaping the last twelve inches. He tumbled, rolled, and sprawled in the grass, face up, as though he were making a snow angel.
Hutch climbed out of his own door, laughed at Phil, and laughed at being here. He leaned back into the cabin to shove the map into his pack. He withdrew an empty Monster can from a cup holder, and Franklin touched his hand.
“I’ll get those,” the pilot said. “You’ll have enough trash to haul out in ten days.”
“How far are we from that area where you suggested we camp?”
“Three, four hundred yards. That way.” He pointed over Hutch’s shoulder.
Hutch wondered if he truly looked as glum as his twin images appeared in Franklin’s glasses. He felt lighter, happier than he had in months. Maybe the emotion was only a tiny swing in the right direction, but it felt good after the long months of near-constant stress and depression. The thought made him realize his heart still ached, heavy in his chest.
Give it time, he told himself. We just got here. If simply flying over No Man’s Land could nudge my happy meter up even the slightest bit, imagine what ten days of surface dwelling, river fishing, caribou hunting, campfire storytelling, and peeing like a bear is going to do. Speaking of peeing . . .
“You good with the gear?” he asked. “I’ve gotta get rid of two cups of coffee and an energy drink.”
“Just step away from the bird, eh?” Franklin said.
Hutch grinned and moseyed over to where Phil lay. He looked skyward, treeward, anywhere-ward but Phil-ward, acting like he didn’t see him down in the grass. He adjusted his waistband, unzipped his fly.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Phil yelled. He rolled away, then rose to his knees. “What’re you doing?”
“Oh, Phil, man, I didn’t see you. Sorry.” He turned away and relieved himself.
“You’re still too close,” Phil scolded.
Hutch chuckled. Every trip up north, they all took a day or two to get used to the freedom. There was something about living in a civilized, restroom-abundant world that made relieving yourself outdoors feel as wrong as swearing in church. He recalled taking his son, Logan, on his first camping trip six years ago, when the boy was five. Phil, David, and Justin, David’s son, had been there too. As kids his age do, Logan had waited until the last moment to ask where the bathroom was. He had been holding himself, legs crossed, bobbing up and down. Hutch had pointed to the nearest tree.
“I can’t go there,” he had protested.
“Why not?”
“It’s outside.”
“Where did you think we were going to go?”
Logan had shrugged and bounced, worry etching his smooth features. Finally he had dashed behind the tree. By the next morning he was attempting to put out the campfire in the way only boys can, shooting off boulders into the lake and generally proving that inhibition crumbled fast.
Pleased he had gotten into the swing of things quickly, Hutch zipped up and smiled. “Just don’t douse our campfire the way Logan did that time, remember?”
Phil laughed. “That was classic.” He looked off toward the trees a moment. “Should have brought him. Logan.”
“Think he’s old enough to hang with us?”
“Sure. Justin too.” David’s boy was now twelve.
Hutch shrugged. “I did run the idea of bringing Logan up here past his mother. She said no way. I checked with Harris”—a friend and Hutch’s divorce attorney—“and he said no magistrate would approve taking him out of state, let alone out of the country, if she fought it. Not with the custody th
ing going on.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil said. He rolled back onto his butt, his knees up and his legs spread in front of him. He looked even fatter like that.
Hutch didn’t like the way he and his buddies seemed to be falling apart. Family, finances, health—it was as though the angels who were supposed to be looking out for them had gone out for a smoke and never came back.
He stepped to the starboard cargo hold, unlatched the door, and swung it open. His hunting gear was on top: a bow case, which also contained six aluminum arrows with Muzzy broadheads and urethane vanes. A waterproof duffel held his Realtree camouflage clothes and makeup, utility belt, canteen, binoculars, compass, and knife. Two more duffel bags stored a sleeping bag, a tent, a change of clothes, extra socks, thermal underwear, a tarp, freeze-dried food, pots, pans, cups, utensils, a water purifying system, a first-aid kit, a Coleman lantern, an isobutane stove, biodegradable soap and toilet paper, and various other knickknacks designed to ease man’s encroachment on nature.
Terry appeared at his side.
“I’m missing a green duffel,”Terry said.
Hutch hefted his last bag from the hold, revealing a green duffel behind it. “There it is,” he said. He moved away to deposit his gear a good distance from the copter and grant Terry access to the hold.Terry pulled out the bag and immediately began rummaging through it.
Phil moaned. He rolled over, got himself standing, hitched up his pants, and ambled to the other side of the aircraft where his gear was stowed.
“What the hey?”Terry whined. He tapped at a device in his hand, then raised it over his head, glaring. He put it to his ear.
Hutch shook his head. “I told you, Ter, no mobile phones up here.”
“You did? No wait . . . I thought you meant we shouldn’t bring any, not that it didn’t matter even if we did.” He appeared devastated. “I got deals pending. I get the Multi-Listing Service on this. E-mail.” He showed Hutch the face of his phone. It looked like a small computer.
“Not up here you don’t.”
“But I used it in La Ronge.”
“That’s La Ronge, four hundred miles south.” Hutch went to his friend. “Look, we all agreed. No business.”
“But I’m . . .”Terry was crestfallen. He appeared ready to weep.
If he starts bawling, Hutch thought, I’m going to carry him all the way to the river and throw him in.
“I’m . . . putting my life back together.”
Hutch put an arm around him. “I know. This is part of it. Really.”
David came around the back of the helicopter, burdened with bags. Straps crossed over both shoulders, his neck, and a forearm. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Terry thought he’d be able to use his mobile phone.”
“Well, I was glad to leave mine home. But I did remember this.” He set down a bag and pulled something out of a breast pocket. An iPod. “Self-contained,” he said. “The White Stripes, Coldplay, Third Day.” He pulled earbuds out of the same pocket and began untangling them.
“Wait’ll the battery goes,”Terry grumbled.
“Grouch,” David said, smiling. He squinted at a knot in the white cable.
Phil trudged up, dragging a duffel. He dropped it and went to fetch another.
Franklin ducked under the tail boom from the copter’s port side, pulled the last bag out of the cargo compartment, slammed the lid down, and latched it.
“Hey,” Terry said. “What if I climb a tree . . . or hike up one of those mountains? Maybe I can get a signal there.”
“Not with that,” Franklin informed him. “Not up here.”
Terry gazed sadly at the phone, a child with the best Christmas present in the world but no batteries to run it.
“Now this . . .” Franklin said and reached around his back. He produced a decidedly unattractive hunk of plastic with what could have been a black foot-long hot dog protruding from one end. “E.T. could phone home with one of these.”
“That?”Terry squinted for a better look.
“Satellite phone. Only way to talk up here. ’Less you’re First Nation.”
“What?” Phil said, returning with another duffel. “Smoke signals?”
“Well, maybe. I’ve seen strange columns of smoke. Could be them doing that, I don’t know. But I meant the animals. They say some First Nations can talk to a lynx or bear or hawk.Then the animal goes and tells another First Nation what it heard.”
“For real?” Phil asked.
Franklin laughed. “I don’t know! That’s just what they say. But I tell you”—his voice grew conspiratorial—“weird things happen up here. An animal goes into a cave, a man comes out. A First Nation gets his leg crushed in one of the mines—I mean pulped meat and broken bone—shows up next day fine. Strong magic in these parts, eh.”
“You believe that stuff?” Hutch said with more sarcasm than he’d intended.
“I’m just saying . . .” The satellite phone disappeared behind him again.
“Hey, wait a sec,”Terry said, reaching for his back pocket. “How much for the phone?”
Hutch stopped him. “Save your money,Ter.We agreed . . .”
Franklin said, “Can’t do it, buddy. Belongs to the company, eh. If I went back without it, it’d be my job.”
Terry bowed his head.
Hutch patted him on the shoulder. “Good man. It’ll work out. You’ll see.” He turned to Franklin. “Okay. The river’s over there.”
“The Straight River.”
“Right. Now, where’s my best bet for caribou?” He had convinced Franklin over the phone and with a wad of twenties when they had met in Points North Landing to let him go on a DIY hunt—a do-it-yourself hunt, without a guide, though his nonresident license required one.
“Here’s my guiding to you, should anyone ask,” Franklin said. He pointed in the direction opposite the river, toward the hills. “That way.”
The landscape sloped almost imperceptibly toward the Fond du Lac River, which shimmered like a hot wire four miles south. On the other side of the river, the earth rose again, softly.They were in a shallow valley roughly forty miles wide.
“Not toward the Fond du Lac?” Hutch clarified. Experience had taught him that lots of water meant lots of animals.
Franklin shook his head. “Right here, we’re at the very southern edge of their range. Some stragglers get on down farther, but . . . nah, you’ll find more up here. Besides, town of Fiddler Falls is right there, on the river. I thought you wanted to steer clear of folk.”
“We do. Appreciate it.”
“All right, then, you boys have fun, eh.” Franklin shook Hutch’s hand and climbed into the cabin. Two minutes later, the helicopter was a speck against the blue canvas and the four friends were standing in the meadow, awed by the vastness of the landscape, its beauty and serenity. None of them wanted to break the silence, so they stayed that way a long time, happy finally to be alone and together.
7
Turned out, Declan,s other business did include hunting. After rounding up forty-seven people, by Tom’s count, Declan grew increasingly fidgety. He checked his watch and frequently told Bad to give him a “status report.” It was a task that required Bad to return to the Hummer for minutes at a time. He allowed Tom to sit on the curb while he paced. Bad and Kyrill roamed Provincial, weapons at the ready.They checked doors, looked through windows, and disappeared up side streets, occasionally returning with new prisoners.Tom hoped these new captives had ventured into the gunmen’s line of sight and weren’t pulled from their homes. As long as Declan’s gang targeted only people outside their homes, Laura and Dillon stood a chance.
He yearned for them now, for the love in their eyes, even when they were only glancing at him or listening to his ramblings about some trivial town event or how the car needed new brakes. He wanted to feel the pressure of their bodies against his, their arms around him, their warmth. When he hugged them and they hugged back, he felt more than mutual affection; he felt . . . p
rivileged.That they were giving him their time, allowing him to know how their bodies were constructed. Letting him feel their musculature and bones, their breath on his neck, the ebb and flow of their chests against his as they breathed. His favorite hugs were tight and sustained. Then if he concentrated, and he often did, he could feel their hearts beating. He wished he had insisted on that kind of hug before he’d rushed out this morning. He wished he had insisted on any hug.
A shout drew his attention. Kyrill was standing outside the ice cream parlor and had called to Declan.
“This place got arcade games!” he said. “Ms. Pac-Man and Galaga. Let’s move them to the community center.”
“Not now!” Declan called back. He continued to pace.
Kyrill peered through the store’s window again, then moved on. His and Bad’s gun-wielding presence instantly turned Fiddler Falls into an occupied territory, under the constant threat of sudden and arbitrary violence. The cameraman—whose name Tom learned was Pruitt—spent most of the time in the community center. When he emerged he would film the buildings on each side of the street in slow pans, then lock on the movements of one of the gunmen.
The girl had found peroxide, cotton balls, and bandages in the general store. She knelt beside Tom and began to dab gently at the wound on the back of his head. Every touch was like a hammer knocking on his skull. The first dozen cotton balls turned bright red, the next ones less so. She pushed deeper through his hair. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” she said.
He lowered his head to whisper. “You don’t have to do this.” Not meaning the first aid. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “No one is worth going to jail for. If you help me—”
She jabbed a fingernail into his wound. It felt like a spike. She tilted her head to look into his eyes. Their lashes were almost touching. Her hair smelled vaguely of oranges. Her voice was low, seductive.
“Don’t think for a minute you know me. I’m here because I want to be. I’m with Declan because I want to be. If he wants you gone, I’ll pack your bag.” She pulled back slightly. She gazed into his right eye, then his left, as though each told a different story. “If he wants you dead, I’ll pull the trigger.”
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