The smell was getting stronger.
He worked his way up a hill, grabbing limbs, roots, rocks for support; then he reached the crest and looked down. There was a small metal building, a prefab job, nestled in the shade of some pines beside a narrow road that wound into the woods to the west. A meth cook shack, Josh thought, judging from the smell—overwhelming now. A Nissan pickup was parked beside the building. Josh studied the scene. South of the road in a small draw was a green plot of shoulder-high plants. Josh thought he knew what they were.
He stretched on his stomach and watched, weighing options. He had no weapon, and he was injured. The one advantage he did have, hopefully, was surprise. Even that was questionable, because they might be expecting him. Trace could have had people in the woods with radios. But if they had seen him, they would have grabbed him by now, he reasoned.
The door to the shack opened, and One Eye Kanatobi walked out. He turned and locked a padlock, securing the door. Josh stayed still.
The Indian got in the pickup and drove west. Josh listened to the engine fade in the distance. He looked at his watch. It was six-twenty. He waited five minutes. He got to his feet, the pain from his ankle shooting up his leg. He crept down hill and approached the shack from the side. It was bigger than he first thought, perhaps forty feet by twenty feet. There was only one door, and no windows. He went around to the front and looked at the lock. If someone was in there guarding her, then One Eye wouldn’t have needed to lock the door.
Josh looked at the padlock. It took him five minutes to find a rock the right size. He smashed the rock against the bracket, hitting it again and again, half-expecting someone to shoot him in the back. He paused, listening, then kept hitting until he worked up a blister. To keep his mind off the pain, he counted the smashes.
On the thirty-second hit, the lock broke. Josh pushed the door open and walked inside. The smell hit him, a hundred times worse than outside. There was one large room, roasting hot, filled with cardboard boxes on a wooden table, plastic containers of chemicals, and four round plastic flasks cooking a dark-brown liquid. Several large batteries provided electricity. There was no sign of Amy. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it over his face. He felt sick. He walked through the cluttered floor, pushing aside boxes labeled acetic anhydride, sodium acetate, and other chemicals he couldn’t pronounce.
Then he saw a door at the far end of the room. He limped over to it. There was no padlock this time. He tried the knob. It was locked. "Amy, it’s Josh. You in there?" Nothing. "Make a sound if you’re in there." Silence. He went out for the rock. It took him five minutes to smash through. He unbolted the door and stepped inside a small room.
He saw the skulls first. There were five of them, arranged side-by-side on shelves. The rest of the room held containers of chemicals, jars of powders and plants, boxes of .30-.30 Winchester ammunition, two bottles of Old Crow whiskey, and a map of Geneva, Switzerland. He saw an old trunk in a corner. The room was musty and stank of chemicals; and he longed for fresh air, but he crossed the room and looked at the trunk. Locked. He smashed the clasp with the rock, breaking the blister on his hand. He lifted the lid and looked inside.
He found a pair of hiking boots, a red kerchief, loose coins, men and women’s belts, strands of hair in plastic sandwich bags, and several pictures. Josh poured over the pictures carefully. There was a young couple, both blonde; another of a dark-skinned boy in his teens, probably Indian, the face swollen, forehead high. Down’s Syndrome? Josh wondered. A third picture was of an Indian couple in their early thirties, the woman beautiful, with high cheekbones, the man handsome—it was like looking at Tom Sixkiller fifteen years from now.
Josh rested on his knees, taking weight off his ankle. He remembered what Isaac had said that night outside the cave, how witches kept personal belongings of those they had killed, believing that it added to the power of their craft. He looked up at the skulls on the shelves, and thought about the hikers who had disappeared. He remembered that Wake had said Trace had a retarded brother who had drowned in the Glover River. Was one of the skulls from the brother? Josh looked at the last picture again and knew what he had suspected earlier, what Tom Sixkiller had hinted at yesterday: Tom’s parents had not deserted him. Trace had killed them.
Josh heard a sound.
He turned and saw One Eye standing there, his rifle leveled at Josh’s chest. His eyes were shining with a crazy look.
CHAPTER 17
"Face the wall and sit!" One Eye ordered.
They had moved into the other room, and One Eye pointed toward a narrow, straight-back chair a few feet from a low wooden table. There was some rope on the table. Josh checked his options. He didn’t have any yet. He turned the chair toward the wall and sat.
"Put your hands together behind the chair."
One Eye had looked jumpy, and he talked too fast, his good eye darting around. "Move a muscle and you’re dead."
Facing the wall, Josh heard One Eye take the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt, heard the sound of rope being cut, heard the thunk as One Eye stuck the knife into the wood table. The Indian was being careful, Josh thought; he wanted the knife out of Josh’s reach. Then he felt the big Indian’s presence behind him; he smelled him too. "Been snorting some of the goods, One Eye?"
“Shut up.”
He felt the rope being pulled tight around his wrists, and he knew that if he let the Indian tie his feet, then he and Amy would die. "You know what drug dealers do with meth cooks who get into the product?"
"I said shut up!"
"They get rid of them."
One Eye pulled the chair around so he could face Josh. "You want to die before Trace gets here? So you don’t have to watch your girl get it first?"
At least she was still alive, Josh thought. "Do you like to shoot up? I saw your arms."
The rope lashed across the side of his face. His lip was split, and blood ran down his chin onto his chest.
One Eye said, "You want a meth lesson, Railroad Boy? You came to the right guy." He bent down to tie Josh’s feet.
“I want the lesson from the dealer, not the speed freak short-order cook who’s stealing the product."
"Shut up! You and your daddy are living on peanuts, and we’re making a fortune out here." He swept his hand across the room. "We’re making ice, Railroad Boy. Ice is to meth what crack is to cocaine. It’s smokable, cheaper, a better high. Them machines over in the corner—they’re canning machines. We cook the meth into crystal—the ice—then pack it in tuna cans and ship it out all over."
"And you grow marijuana?"
"We got patches all over the property. Got one right outside this shack. And it ain’t garden-variety grass. It’s sinsemilla."
“Sinsemilla?"
"Seedless marijuana, ten times stronger. Costs two-hundred dollars an ounce."
"Do you smoke it with your step-daughter?"
"What did you say?"
"Do you smoke grass with Wilma? Do ice with her, too?"
One Eye wiped his mouth, then in the same motion, he hit Josh with the back of his hand. The blow jerked Josh’s head sideways, and he almost blacked out. He felt his hair being grabbed from the side.Stand in front of me, he thought. One Eye said, "You just want me to kill you early, boy." He walked back toward the table. Josh heard something being poured. Then the Indian reappeared, standing to the side, holding a glass of brown liquid. His eye was crazy now, wide and shiny, the pupil dilated. "You’re so hung up on meth. I’ll give you some." He poured it over Josh’s head.
The warm liquid splashed into the cuts, and Josh felt like he was being stung by a thousand wasps. One Eye moved in front of him and held out the glass, still half-full. He grasped Josh’s hair and leaned forward, moving the glass toward Josh’s face. "Drink it."
Josh smelled the liquid, and he felt the nausea building. When the glass was inches from his lips, Josh kicked One Eye in the crotch. The Indian dropped the glass on Josh’s chest, and his eye bul
ged. He grabbed himself and dropped to his knees.
Josh kicked him beneath the chin, and watched him fall back against the wall, both hands still on his groin. Josh managed to stand up. The rifle was ten feet away, leaning against the wall. But the rifle would do him no good until he freed his hands. The rope had slipped enough that he was able to turn. He crab-walked sideways over to the table, where the knife stuck in the wood near the edge.
One Eye was moaning, crawling toward the rifle. He must be hurt pretty bad. Josh reached back with his hands for the knife. The chair made the angle bad, but he could feel the handle. He didn’t have enough purchase to get a grip, so he slammed the chair against the table. He felt the rope slip more on his wrists.
One Eye was halfway to the rifle. Josh slammed the chair against the table again, feeling the rope loosen more. He backed toward the table. This time he was able to grip the knife handle. He pulled, but it stuck. He pulled again, and it moved. One Eye cursed and kept crawling toward the rifle. Josh grabbed the knife handle and pulled.
The knife came loose. He knew that if he dropped it, he was dead. He put the edge against the rope, leaned back, and started sawing the rope.
One Eye was getting near the rifle. His chin was red where Josh had kicked him, and his jaw looked out of line. He was bleeding from the mouth and trailing blood. Josh knew he was running out of time. He felt the blade cutting through the rope, and it loosened some. The chair shifted, putting more weight on his wrists, making the job harder; so Josh sat down in the chair and sawed at the rope. He watched the Indian get within three feet of the rifle.
One Eye stretched, almost touching the stock. Josh gave a hard jerk on the knife, and the rope fell away. He jumped from the chair and felt a stabbing cramp in his back as he tried to stand up. The cramp made him bend over. The Indian had his hand on the stock now. Josh got to his feet and half-ran, half-dove across the room. He grabbed the barrel of the Remington lever-action .30-.30 and jerked it out of One Eye’s hand. Josh jacked a round into the chamber and aimed at One Eye’s nose. "It’s over.”
The Indian stared up at him, his eye wild. He didn’t seem convinced. "I don’t want to shoot you, because it might tip off Trace. So this is for Amy."
He shifted the rifle and clipped One Eye’s jaw with the butt. The Indian’s eye rolled up into the socket, and he slumped to the floor. Josh went after the rope. It took him four minutes to hog-tie One Eye. Then he found a thermos of ice water and drank. He was so hot that it came back up. This time he sipped slowly. He looked at his watch and realized he was wasting time. He found a rag and gagged One Eye, making sure he could breath.
Slowly, Josh opened the shack door and went outside. He listened, hearing only birds. He had the rifle and the knife. He had checked the rifle to make sure it was loaded, glad now that he had done some target practice with a 30-.30 with his father. He started walking south down the draw through the plot of marijuana, which gave him cover. Something nagged at his memory—something Isaac had said—but Josh was so tired he couldn’t remember. He walked through the plants, working his way toward the ridge on the other side. At the top of the ridge, he would have a field of fire to anything approaching on the road. Josh had to take Trace before he got inside the shack, and when Trace got out from behind the wheel, he would be separated from Amy for a moment. Josh was a good shot, and he thought he could wound him. Josh would pray for a good angle of fire.
The mosquitoes swarmed around him. He thought he heard something, a kind of whirring. He picked his way through the marijuana, feeling that something was wrong. Another ten yards and he would be out of the green field and onto the slope of the ridge. Then he remembered Isaac’s warning at the park: "Beware of the green plants by the little building." Why should he fear the marijuana? he asked himself. It was the growers who would kill him.
The earth gave way beneath his feet. He dropped the rifle, trying to get his balance, and fell feet first into a pit. The impact on his sprained ankle made him scream as pain shot up his leg. Then he heard another sound—straight from his nightmares. He felt the writhing snakes beneath his feet, around his ankles. Fangs struck his boots. He looked up at the sky and screamed.
CHAPTER 18
Josh pulled the knife and stuck it into the side of the pit, but the soil was too soft to take any weight. The rattlers drowned out everything, and he felt them slithering over his boots. Ish Maytubby’s corpse flashed through his mind.
He forced himself to look down, to see if there was anything to step on, but all he saw was rattlesnakes. Had the pit been smaller, he could have braced his feet against the sides and attempted to climb, but the pit was too large. He looked up and saw Amy’s face. Trace Gottschalk was holding her. He was wearing the broad black hat with the conch shell band. Amy was bound and gagged, her eyes wild with terror as she looked down into the pit.
Josh reversed the knife in his hand, judging his chances of throwing it without hitting Amy. Trace smiled, holding Amy with his left arm and leveling his rifle on Josh with the right. "Won’t work. Just drop it down with the snakes." Josh paused , measuring the throw.
"Drop it! Or I’ll shoot you in the knees and put you down with them."
Josh let go of the knife. The rattling got louder, and he felt one of the snakes coiling around his ankle. He prayed that the itse Isaac had given him would buy a few seconds.
Trace said, "You’re too predictable, Railroad Boy. So is she." He looked at Amy.
Her eyes darted, and she struggled, trying to free herself. She was going to make a fight of it. Trace jerked her back against him. "Hold still!"
He looked down at Josh. "Never thought you could take One Eye.”
Josh said, "Let Amy go. She’s not part of this."
Trace laughed. "After what she’s seen?" His eyes went flat. "She’s going to be down there with you." He smiled, looking down at Josh’s leg. "That big one is going to climb up your boot. Let’s stir them up with another customer." He shoved Amy toward the mouth of the pit. She dropped to her stomach. She looked at Josh and said that she loved him with her eyes.
"Bitch!" Trace dropped the rifle and started to bend down to her.
Then his chest exploded. Josh heard the rifle shot as a spray of blood and bone blew down on him. Trace’s eyes lost focus, and he clawed at the wound, as if he could rip it away, then he fell head first into the pit. Josh heard the rattlers going crazy. Trace’s body was jammed next to him in the pit, sliding down. Josh could feel his body heat and blood. Josh climbed the body toward the edge. He looked down for the knife, and saw nothing but snakes, writhing over the conch-shell hat. He stretched his hand up toward the edge of the pit, six inches away.
Then he saw Tom Sixkiller’s face. Tom reached down for him. Josh gripped the hand, shoved his boot against Trace’s body, and crawled out of the pit. He lay there sucking air. Tom pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose. "No wonder the snakes didn’t kill you. You smell like a meth factory." He put down his rifle, took out a knife, and cut the rope and gag away from Amy. Amy fell against Josh, her body trembling, and wept. He held her, stroking her hair.
Then they heard the helicopters, a distant, flapping sound.
Tom said, "I knew they would come someday."
Josh prayed it was a SWAT team, the guys his dad had called.
Tom said, "Get up. There isn’t much time."
Josh helped Amy up. She leaned against him unsteadily. "I thought you were dead."
"Be quiet!" Tom said. "Don’t say anything until we’re out of this field. Understand?"
They nodded.
"This field is mined. Step where I step." They zigzagged across the marijuana field, Tom leading the way, working to the west. In four minutes, they got out of the patch. Tom looked toward the sound of the helicopters. "They’re gonna bust this place."
Josh said, "State narcotics people?"
"Yeah. Ish Maytubby was an informant for them. Trace caught him nosing around, and killed him."
Jos
h looked at Tom, reading the sadness in his friend’s eyes. "I can’t lie to them, Tom."
"I don’t want you to lie to them."
"What can I tell them?"
"Tell them the truth. Tell them what happened out here."
Josh paused, putting his arm around Amy’s waist, listening to the helicopters getting closer. "What about you?"
"They’ll never find me. I’ll work my way north into the Kiamichis, then the Ouchita Mountains. I know how to live off the land, and I have relatives up in those mountains."
"There’s something I have to tell you."
"What?"
"When I was in the shack, I found some things. I think they belonged to your mother and dad."
Tom nodded, stroking the medallion on his necklace. "I found that place last week. I’d been looking for it for a long time. Isaac told me where it was. Then I knew what I had to do."
Josh knew they were running out of time. "There’s something I have to ask."
"Ask quick."
"That day we met in the woods outside the park ... the first time. Was that a set-up? Were you waiting for me?"
Tom smiled. "There is an Indian saying: ‘Even a strong wind can change its mind."‘ He reached out and placed his hand on Josh’s shoulder. "Good-bye." He turned and started moving away.
“Wait!" Josh reached into his pocket and took out the witchcraft pouch that Isaac had given him. He pitched it toward Tom.
Tom caught it. "Are you sure, Josh? This saved your life more than once."
Josh squeezed Amy’s hand. "My life is made."
Tom stuck the pouch in his pocket, and started to trot up the hill. Then he stopped.
He looked down and stroked the medallion; then he lifted off the necklace and tossed it to Josh. "My mother made this. Keep it for me. I’ll come back and get it some day." Then he was gone.
Josh turned to Amy. "You okay?"
The Witchery Way Page 14