The lane was narrow, bumpy, arched with trees. A hundred yards along, he braked. Getting out, swatting mosquitoes in the forest’s stillness, he walked back to the road. The bushes had been broken too severely to spring up and hide where he’d entered the lane. All the same, in theory no one in this valley ought to care.
In theory.
He dragged a fallen limb across the mouth of the lane, using it to prop the branches so they stood as if they hadn’t been broken. Someone looking closely would see the cracks along their stems, but a passing motorist wouldn’t notice. Several days from now, the bushes would lose their leaves, but by then it wouldn’t matter if anyone guessed this lane had been used. His concern was for tonight and tomorrow. He propped up a second row of bushes, studied his work, and decided they looked as natural as he could expect.
He continued driving up the lane. Branches scratched the Eagle. Bushes scraped its bottom. Furrows jostled him. He reached a fallen limb too large for him to drive across. Getting out, he shifted it, then drove ahead and for precaution walked back, placing it across the lane again. Farther up, he bumped across a stream, hoping the water wouldn’t soften his brakes, frowning as a boulder whacked his muffler.
But the Eagle had a high suspension, and the four-wheel drive worked perfectly, surviving its torture, gaining traction on a brutal hill. The map didn’t show any buildings ahead. That puzzled him. He wondered who’d built the lane and why. Loggers? Hydro crews needing access to pylons through the mountains? Someone who owned this section and used it for hunting?
He hoped he wouldn’t find out.
4
Disappointingly, the lane disappeared in the knee-high grass of an upper meadow.
End of the line. He couldn’t risk driving through the grass. His tracks would be obvious from the air. He had to assume the Hermitage used surveillance choppers. Strictly speaking, the rest home’s guards wouldn’t have much reason to check this bordering valley, but Eliot’s people would. Since they knew Saul was coming, they’d be extra cautious.
He glanced at his watch—four-thirty—then at the sun behind him, dipping toward the mountains. Dusk soon.
Move. He parked the Eagle off the lane, hidden by bushes from the ground and by trees from the air. Raising the hatch, he took out his equipment.
He’d arranged it skillfully in a Kelty pack: beef jerky, peanuts, dried fruit (protein and carbohydrates he wouldn’t have to cook); extra clothes, all wool (in case of a storm, the hollow fibers of wool dried fast without needing a fire); a sleeping bag filled with Dacron (like the wool, it dried fast); fifty yards of nylon rope, a knife, first-aid kit, and canteen, already filled, though when he got higher he’d trust the streams. He wore thick-soled mountain boots, designed to help his feet support the weight of the pack.
Hefting its metal frame to his shoulders, he tightened the straps and cinched the waist belt. In a moment, he’d adjusted his balance to the extra bulk. He eased his pistol along his side where the pack wouldn’t pinch it against his skin, then locked the car and started up.
Around the meadow, not across it. He still couldn’t leave a trail. Skirting mountain flowers, he reached the other edge, hiking steadily through the foothills, climbing steeper, harder. Sweat soaked his shirt, forming rivulets between his shoulder blades beneath his pack. At first, he judged his direction by sight alone, knowing the ridge he wanted, but as deadfalls blocked his way, as trees hid his view and draws meandered, he checked his map repeatedly, comparing its contour lines to features around him, aligning it with his compass. Sometimes he found a sparsely wooded slope that seemed an easy climb in the direction he needed to go, but the map warned otherwise. Or else he chose a gully so thick with boulders he wouldn’t have considered it if the map hadn’t shown it soon became a gentle rise. Forewarned of a cliff beyond the next hill, he veered a quarter-mile out of his way to reach a stream he followed up a steep but climbable gorge.
He stopped to swallow rock salt, drinking. At high altitude, the body worked harder than normal, sweating abundantly. But the dry air evaporated sweat so quickly a climber might not realize the risk of dehydration. Lethargy could lead to coma. Water alone wouldn’t help, though. Salt was needed for the body to retain the water. But Saul didn’t taste the salt, a sure sign he needed it. Shoving his canteen back in his knapsack, he studied the gorge he’d climbed, hearing the roar of the falling stream, then turned to the bluffs above.
Their shadows lengthened. The forest became deep green, like a jungle or clouds before a tornado. Emotions stormed inside him. His steps were relentless, fierce. The thought of jungle had reminded him of missions with Chris in Nam, of a war they’d fought because Eliot wanted them to experience combat. He remembered escaping with Chris from the choppers in the mountains of Colorado because their father had betrayed them.
Chris, he wanted to scream. Remember the summer Eliot took us camping in Maine? The best week of my life. Why couldn’t things have turned out differently?
The spongy loam of the forest led higher. Through a break in the trees, he saw the pass he aimed for, a saddlelike ridge between two peaks. He climbed past slabs of granite, the last rays of sunset glinting through the pass, a beacon through the dusk. He reached the entrance, more determined now. Too excited to feel the weight of his pack, he hurried to a sheltered bluff from which he gazed at the valley below.
It wasn’t much different from the valley behind him. The peaks, the forest, were similar. A river, the Pitt, ran through it. The map said the next valley over was Golden Ears Provincial Park. But as he stared at alpenglow from the dying sunset, he saw all the difference that mattered.
The valley was bisected by a road, roughly east to west. Another road cut across it, heading toward the park beyond. But the northwest sector… there…. A sizable area was clear of trees. He guessed its lawn filled a hundred acres. Through binoculars, he identified stables, a swimming pool, a jogging track, a golf course.
In the midst of it all, a massive lodge reminded him of a place at Yellowstone where Eliot once had taken him and Chris.
Rest home. Haven.
Death trap.
5
In the night, it rained. Among his equipment, he had a sheet of waterproof nylon. Stretching it across two boulders, anchoring the sides, he made a shelter. Hunched beneath it, wearing his thick wool clothes, his sleeping bag around him, he ate, barely tasting the peanuts and jerky, peering at the dark. Rain pelted the nylon, dripping off the front. His cheeks felt damp. He shivered, unable to sleep, thinking of Chris.
At dawn, the drizzle changed to mist. He crawled from his sleeping bag and relieved his bladder among some rocks. He washed in a nearby stream, shaved, and scrubbed his hair. Hygiene was mandatory up here—he couldn’t risk getting sick. Equally crucial, he had to preserve his self-respect. If he fouled his body with dirt and odor, his mind would soon be affected. Feeling sloppy, he’d start to think that way, and Eliot would catch him making mistakes. With yesterday’s sweat rinsed off, his bare skin tingled, scoured to a glow, he regained energy, welcoming the goosebumps raised by the chill. Resolve became sharper. Rage surged through him. He was ready.
His clothes felt damp only a moment. His body warmed their hollow wool fiber, causing vapor to rise like steam. Assembling his equipment, he hefted the backpack to his shoulders and started grimly down the mountain.
This far from the Hermitage, he didn’t worry about sentries. The terrain was too wild. With several passes leading into the valley, it would take too many men to watch every approach. The main thing was he’d avoid surveillance—and probably snipers—on the road. As he got closer, though, he expected guards, especially near the rest home’s site in the valley’s northwest corner. Despite his eagerness, he descended carefully, knowing how easy it was to injure an ankle under the stress of going down.
The sun came out at noon, adding to the heat of exertion. A cliff stretched so far in both directions he had to loop his rope around his pack, lower it, pull up one end of the rope to free it, then
rappel. At last, by midafternoon, he reached the basin.
Calculating.
If snipers watched the road, they’d want a clear wide line of fire. That suggested they wouldn’t hide in the trees, where all they’d have was a brief glimpse of a car. More likely, they’d prefer an elevated position, a bluff above the trees with a view for miles.
Concealed by a boulder, he peered from a ridge toward lower ridges, slowly shifting his gaze from left to right, inspecting details.
It took an hour. He finally saw them, two, a half-mile apart, watching both ends of the road. Each lay in tall grass on a bluff, wearing brown and green to match the terrain, a telescopic-sighted rifle in position. He wouldn’t have noticed them if each hadn’t moved slightly, one to reach for a walkie-talkie, the other a minute later to drink from his canteen. Across the road, a gate in a fence was equidistant between them, no doubt the entrance to the rest home.
The protocol was important. Outside the rest home, the valley was fair to use as a killing ground—there’d be no punishment to the snipers; they wouldn’t have broken a rule.
But what about directly in front of the gate? What if someone demanding sanctuary was shot as he reached the fence? A rest home was meaningless if no one could get inside. Logic suggested a buffer zone around the place, a small ambiguous strip—no more than a hundred yards perhaps—that wasn’t protected but wasn’t unprotected either. A gray area, requiring prudence. An assassin might not risk execution by killing outside a rest home, but he’d face inquiries. There’d be an investigation before he was absolved.
The ambiguity could work to Saul’s advantage. I have to show myself to reach the fence, he thought. A mile down the road, I’d be dead the instant they spotted me. But what about directly outside the gate? Would they hesitate, pondering the rule?
In their place, I’d shoot.
But I’m not them.
He crept back from the boulder, entering bushes, working lower. His map protected him. In the crowded trees, he couldn’t see the bluffs the snipers lay on. Without a chart and a compass, he could easily wander into their sights. But having marked their positions on the map, he studied contour lines, carefully choosing a middle course through rugged terrain toward the gate. His progress was slow. This close, he had to scan the undergrowth ahead of him in case another sniper watched the gate.
He stopped, not needing to see the gate—his map showed he was in a trough fifty yards from the road, separated by thick shrubs and trees. All he had to do was…
Nothing.
Yet. The sun was still too high. It would make him too vivid a target. The best time to move was at dusk, when there’d be just enough light for him to see up close but not enough for them to aim at a distance.
He took off his backpack, eased it to the ground, and rubbed his shoulders. His stomach cramped. Till now he’d controlled impatience. His goal had been distant. There’d been much to do. But with the rest home fifty yards away, with Eliot almost in his grip, he ached from tension.
Waiting was agony. To keep his mind alert, he studied his surroundings.
A squirrel ran along a branch.
A woodpecker tapped a tree.
The woodpecker stopped.
The squirrel threw up his tail, barked once, and froze.
6
His skin tingled.
Drawing his pistol, Saul crouched and swung to stare around him, quickly attaching a silencer. Alone, the woodpecker’s sudden quiet meant nothing. In tandem with the squirrel’s behavior, it became significant. Something—someone else?—was out here.
His position was risky. Three hundred and sixty degrees of space to defend, and no suspicion of where the threat would come from.
If there was a threat.
He had to assume it. Think. If there’s a sniper, he isn’t behind you. Otherwise you’d have passed him. He’d have made his move by now.
Then he’s ahead or on your flank. Trusting his instinct, Saul ignored his back and concentrated on the trees above this trough along the road. He heard me coming and waited for a target. When I stopped, he started to wonder if he was wrong. Maybe he isn’t used to the forest and he thinks the noise was an animal.
But he can’t take the chance. He’ll have to find out.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s wrong. Maybe it’s me who spooked the squirrel. He shook his head. No, the squirrel kept running after it saw me. Something else made it freeze.
Sweat trickled past his eyes. Where?
A patch of green shifted slowly to his left.
His backpack stood upright beside him. Saul toppled it to the left—as a distraction, to make it seem he was diving to the ground. At the same time he pivoted to the right, coming up behind a bush, aiming at the patch of green.
A man in camouflage sighted a rifle where the backpack had fallen. Shooting, Saul heard three spits from his silencer as his bullets struck the man in the face and throat.
But he hadn’t been quick enough. The man squeezed off a shot just before he lurched, unable to scream because of blood gushing from his throat. The crack of the rifle echoed through the forest, the bullet walloping the backpack.
Saul didn’t bother getting his gear. He didn’t pause to see if the man was dead. He didn’t have time. He charged up the rim of the trough, scrambling through the undergrowth, not checking to see if someone else was ahead of him. It didn’t matter. The shot would have warned them all. They’d turn, glaring at the forest, aiming their weapons. When they couldn’t raise their partner on his walkie-talkie…
They’ll know I’m here. They’ll radio for help and…
Now or never. Branches lashed his face. He scraped past a stump. But he kept sprinting, bursting from the trees, abruptly facing the road.
The fence was tall.
Barbed wire.
Shit. Not breaking stride, he veered toward the gate. At least it was lower.
Something cracked on the asphalt behind him, a shot rumbling from a bluff. He zigzagged, a second bullet whacking the pavement ahead of him. He hit the fence, barbs tearing his clothes, ripping his hands. A third bullet snapped the strand of wire he reached for, whipping it forward, then back at his face. His cheek stung, bleeding. Clambering, he grabbed the top, swung over, and jumped.
Bending his knees as he hit the ground, he rolled.
But something stopped him.
Boots and blue jeans. An angry man pointed a Magnum revolver at his chest.
Another man flanked him, wearing a brown checked hunting shirt, aiming a rifle toward the hills.
At once, the shooting quit. Of course. He’d reached the rest home. They didn’t dare kill him now.
“You’d better have a damn good reason—”
Saul dropped the Mauser, raising his hands. “It’s my only weapon. Search me. I won’t need it now.”
“—for coming here.”
“The best.” Blood dripped from his upheld palms, but he almost laughed. “Abelard.”
It was all he had to say to gain asylum here.
7
They forced him back to the cover of trees and did indeed search him, totally, making him strip.
His scrotum shrank. “I told you the Mauser’s all I have.”
They checked his clothes.
“What’s this packet taped to the inside of your shirt?” Instead of waiting for an answer, one guard tore the seal, opening the plastic, scowling. “Papers.” He threw the pouch dismissively on the pile of Saul’s clothes. “Get dressed.”
“Who shot at you?” the other guard said.
“I thought they were sentries.”
“Cute. We don’t shoot at guests. We protect—”
“But I wasn’t a guest yet. Maybe some of your people thought I meant to attack.”
“Sure. One man. Attack. Quit being cute. Who was it?”
“I wouldn’t have come here if everybody liked me.”
Engines roared, approaching.
“We’ll find out.”
At o
nce two vans appeared through the trees, swerving around a curve in the lane. They skidded, brakes squealing. Before they stopped, men jumped from the sides, dressed in outdoor clothes the same as these guards, burly, square-faced, cold-eyed, some holding rifles, others handguns, walkie-talkies dangling from their shoulders.
“The shots came from over there.” The first guard pointed up at bluffs to the right and left across the road.
The men scrambled forward as the second guard freed the gate.
“They’ve got five minutes on you,” the first guard said.
“The roads are blocked.” A man with a brush cut hurried through, his walkie-talkie slapping his side.
Two others with anxious silent Dobermans rushed by.
“One man’s across the road,” Saul said. “Fifty yards through the trees.”
“By now, he’ll be gone,” a heavy man snapped.
“I doubt it. He’s dead.”
They turned as they ran and squinted at him.
In twenty seconds, they’d disappeared.
The guard in the hunting shirt locked the gate. The other glared at Saul. “You come with us.”
Saul gestured toward the fence. “Who’ll watch the store?”
The drivers of the vans came over, drawing pistols.
“Good,” Saul said and meant it. If the rest home’s security was first rate, the guards who’d found him ought to be his escorts. They knew little about him. Even so, it was more than the others did.
They took him down the lane. He expected a Jeep or another van. Instead he saw a Pontiac with high suspension and oversized wheels, capable of crashing through the forest and ramming out of mud.
He nodded in approval, getting in back. A stout metal grill separated him from the front.
The driver pulled a lever near the emergency brake, locking Saul’s doors. As the car surged from the trees, the second guard studied him through the grill, his handgun propped on the seat.
“If I wanted a concentration camp…”
The Brotherhood of the Rose Page 31