He glances at her. Then at the new-bought map in his lap. Only one road to Elk Lake—steep, narrow, covered with snow.
He thinks of goading her, tired of her silence.
Then breaks off, sudden.
Beneath him, the wheels of the Nissan are starting to slip.
The clearing ahead is a half-mile wide—a dipping gully between dense-grown thickets.
Whicher’s horse steps along the channel made by Coburn's mare.
“You need to get up here, take the lead,” the ranch owner says. “My horse is getting worn out making a path.”
The marshal twitches on the reins, leans his weight forward.
Galen Coburn pulls up, steps his horse to one side. “Let her get in front—give her her head. She knows the ground, she can feel it. Just let her do what she needs to do.”
The marshal lets the reins go slack, grips the horn of the saddle as his mare pushes by.
Snow is up to her shoulders, a banked white mass.
Cold and wet seeps through the fabric of Whicher’s pants. “What kind of country is up ahead?”
“Steep,” Coburn answers.
“Like this? Exposed?”
“Through woods, mainly.”
“Think we can make it?”
“So long as the horses hold out,” Coburn says. “We'll reach the plateau in another couple miles, the land’s flatter up around the lake.”
The marshal cants his head as wind scours the frozen surface of the gully—whipping ice crystals into the air.
He clutches at his hat, tries to hide his face in the collar of his coat.
The mare rears, launches herself. Whicher stays low to her neck.
If Janice Rimes could get up the logging road, there'd be a way out, at least.
“You think we're going to have to come back this a-way?”
Coburn keeps his eyes down, focused on the hollowed-out path through the snow. He doesn't answer.
A wisp of steam rises from the top of the stock tank. Anthony dips a finger into the water—now tepid.
Switching off the generator, he unhooks the heater unit. He heads under the tin roofed-shelter, snatches up a fork, grabs more dry hay.
“Come on over here,” he calls out.
One of the mares turns her head to look at him.
He makes a series of clicking sounds.
The mare's head dips, she starts to lope toward him.
Anthony walks back slowly.
The second horse turns, follows suit, feet dishing in the snow.
He sets the hay down alongside the stock tank. Puts his hand into the water, keeping it under, showing them; “See?”
He takes his hand from the tank, holds it out.
The lead mare puts her muzzle to it. He feels her hot breath, the rough rasp of her tongue.
He puts his hand back into the water.
The horse takes a step forward. Tries a drink.
A voice calls out behind him. “Anthony...”
The horse stops drinking, raises its head.
“What?” Anthony calls back, irritated.
Will Jacobs is standing at the cookhouse cabin. “So, you got a minute?”
Neither horse is drinking, now.
“Come on ladies,” he says, “you need this.” The young man shakes his head, steps away from the tank.
Jacobs squats at the ice-fishing sled. “I'm taking the otter back out while the light’s still good.” He sinks to his knee pads, checks the hitch-bolt is through the loop of nylon rope. “The depth-finder batteries are charged now. I want to mark up a couple places on the far side of the lake.”
Bitter wind rakes his face as Anthony approaches. “Could it wait?”
“I want to check it out, I might even cut a couple of more holes.” The guide settles the augur in the bed of the fishing-sled, orange marker flags nestled beneath it, half covered with fresh snow. “You want to come?”
“I want to stay with the horses.”
“Everything alright?”
“I want them drinking.”
“They'll drink,” Jacobs says.
“Are you going to be long?”
“I don't know. An hour.”
“Should I get some food cooking?”
Jacobs nods. “You could do that. There's a propane cylinder in back if the one in there gives out. Say, Anthony?”
The young man looks at him.
“Long as you're keeping an eye on the horses, keep an eye out for anything bothering them.”
Anthony studies the man’s face.
“I'm just sayin'.”
“I’d do that anyway.”
“The rifle’s in the gun cupboard. There’s a key on a hook under the drain board.” Jacobs looks at him.
Anthony nods.
“Watch for signs they're uneasy,” the guide says. “They'll know before you.”
Light is filtering, growing through the canopy of pines; the logging road is headed out from the cover of the woods—into open ground.
Belaski touches the back of a hand to his forehead, it's filmed with sweat. “Son of a bitch. This is bullshit.”
The Nissan breaks from the tree line, windshield filling with dull, white flakes.
Straining his eyes to make out the route, he flicks on the wipers.
There's just a white-covered expanse, drifting snow—flat land, leafless trees.
At the far side of the clearing, a pine thicket stands ragged—he can make out a line of fence posts, no wire, no rail.
“We get our asses stuck, I might just put you out.” He glances at Lauren. “Leave you here—to freeze to death.”
The Nissan plows forward—a scraping sound rising from beneath the chassis.
Belaski grits his teeth, pushes down on the gas.
“That little jerk better be out here...”
He eyes the sky above the thicket, snow in the air, wave after wave descending.
Lauren’s face is set hard, as if she's alone, as if nothing of him touches her existence.
“I guess your brother really bought that he could disappear,” Belaski says. “It might have worked...” he pauses, mid-sentence.
From the corner of his eye, he sees her angle her head a fraction.
He turns.
Her eyes look into his.
Some force lights them, some internal force. Belaski feels a surge down deep in his blood.
“About three months after he came here, he got bored, you know, a little lonely?”
She breaks off looking at him.
“Maybe he started to relax a little. Believe that he was going to get a free pass.”
The wheels of the SUV slip in the deep snow, then bite. Wind hammers against the Nissan’s side.
“He started calling up a few old friends from the neighborhood—in Chicago. A couple of times he even called up his girlfriend, his ex.” Belaski shakes his head. “Your brother's whereabouts have been known a while. You'd be surprised how easy it is to find a person. All it takes is one thread.”
He stares into the darkness of the thicket, trails of snow and ice streaming off the outer branches of the trees.
An opening is showing—the line of fence posts run toward it.
“You see a thread dangling,” Belaski says, “catch hold. Start to pull on it—little by little, all it takes...”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Deep in the woods the air hangs heavy, slowed from the winter onslaught, cold and eerie.
The horses’ ears are up. They find their footing swiftly, despite the rocky ground.
Whicher leans back in the saddle, pulls off one glove. Unfastens the heavy wool coat.
A heightened sensation is upon him—instinctive, a thing he's come to recognize. Ten years back as a combat scout—countless situations since, in law enforcement.
Maybe it's the light; strange, fractured through the pines. The high, keening wind in the tops of the trees.
Ahead, Coburn points to a dead trunk laying horizontal at the sid
e of the trail. “We get around that fallen yellowbark, we got about another quarter-mile.”
The marshal feels the rocking motion of the horse steady beneath him. He listens to the creak of saddle-leather, the bit jingling at the mare’s mouth.
“We're going to have to ride back this way.” Coburn twists his neck, looks up into the sky, into snow sifting through the trees. “I can't see any way around it—the logging road's going to be out.”
“You don't think Agent Rimes could make it up there?”
“There’s no reason anybody’d clear it,” Coburn says. “There’s been no timber harvest in a while.” The ranch owner looks back over his shoulder. “We need to find Anthony, feed the horses, get 'em to drink. Then turn around and head back out—we need to be gone from here before we lose the light.”
Whicher slips his hand inside his coat, reaches down, feels for the Ruger in the shoulder-holster. He takes it out. Eyes the big revolver, settles it into an outside pocket of the coat.
At the camp ground, Anthony sets the bucket of bran mash down to stare at the newly-arrived vehicle.
An SUV is pulling up in front of the cookhouse cabin, windshield wipers going—only the swept section of the glass clear of snow.
The ice-fishing party is slated for tomorrow, coming out on horseback. He glances at the leaden sky. Jacobs hasn't mentioned anybody coming out.
Walking toward the vehicle, Anthony raises a hand.
It’s hard to see inside.
Nobody is getting out.
A man is staring at him from behind the wheel.
Beside the driver is another figure. Smaller.
The driver’s door is opening. The man steps out.
He's wearing a winter parka, his face sharp, like a hawk. He’s out of place—not a rancher, or a farmer. His eyes are hard as he stares, a tight smile beneath the hook of a nose.
“Anthony Delano?”
The young man’s never seen him before. A feeling starts to tick inside. Countless times he's imagined a stranger—turning up, asking for him, a certain look in his face. From dreams he's woken, afraid—only to realize he's still safe, still hidden, far from Chicago.
“My name's Corrigan. I'm a US Marshal.”
Snow is falling in Anthony’s eyes as he blinks. “Is something wrong?” He studies the man, feels a dryness in his mouth.
“I’m from the witness protection program. I need you to step on over here. If you don't mind?”
The smile is gone.
The man takes out a leather badge-holder. He opens it. It shows a star in a circle.
“Your sister is in the car with me.” He half-turns, gestures with a thumb.
Anthony stares at the windshield.
“We have to move her,” the man says. “We’re in a situation here, kind of an emergency. We have to move her, we need to move you too. Hell of a time to do it, in the middle of a winter storm, but there's no choice.”
The passenger door is opening, now. Anthony sees his sister stepping out.
She's wearing a big coat, a man's coat. The wind whipping hair across her face.
“It's alright,” she says.
One of the mares lets out a whinnying sound. He turns, looks at the horses.
Turning back, he sees his sister staring at him.
“Sometimes this happens,” the man says. “In witness security.” He nods at the vehicle. “You want to get in the car?”
Anthony takes a step toward them. “What, we just, go?”
“We need to get down this hill,” the man says. “Get back onto regular roads. Before we’re cut off.”
“Is somebody coming out here?”
The man, Corrigan, puts his head a little on one side.
“Is somebody looking for me?” Anthony says.
“We think there could be.”
“Everybody told me it was safe.”
“We'll keep you safe,” the man says.
Anthony looks at his sister's face.
“I'm sorry,” she says. She looks away. “We need to just go.”
She steps back into the car, pulls the door shut.
“Don't bring anything,” the man says, “just come exactly as you are. Leave it all. We have to vanish. Just as if we were never here.”
Out on the frozen lake, Will Jacobs holds the ice-auger upright—resting the weight of the motor on the steel screw-blade.
He stares at the SUV maneuvering at the cabins—turning now, backing—headed out.
He hoists the auger, carries it to the otter, dumps it in the bed of the sled.
In his head, he rewinds the last minute—he was setting up the shelter trying to get out of the wind. He got done with that, he’d dragged the auger out of the ice-sled—he straightened up to get a pull on the starter, he noticed a vehicle, an SUV.
From the far side of the lake, he couldn't tell much, except that he had no idea what it was doing there.
He grabs the nylon rope, starts to pull the sled over the surface of the ice.
A man had gotten out.
Anthony’d gone over.
They were talking. Then somebody else got out of the vehicle—smaller; it might've been a man or a woman. Blond hair. A big coat.
Anthony’d gotten in the back seat.
Jacobs pulls harder on the otter, breaking into a stumbling run.
The vehicle is almost gone already—it's out down the line of the rick fence, at the opening to the far thicket.
“Wait...” he calls out.
No way they’re going to hear him.
The SUV keeps on.
It’s in the tree line, now.
It’s gone.
Down at the foot of the logging road, Agent Janice Rimes shelters beneath the trees by her car. For fifteen minutes the Pennington County Sheriff four-wheel-drive has been gone. But she can hear it now, motor rumbling, descending back out of the woods.
She curses under her breath. Watches the vehicle emerge from the forest, steer down to the apron where the logging road meets the regular highway.
The driver, Deputy Mathis, slows to a stop, drops the window. “No way,” he says.
The FBI agent slips out a cigarette.
“No way I'm getting all the way up that.”
Rimes sparks a flame. “Somebody made it.”
Mathis nods. Wheel tracks are clearly visible; something’s gone up. “The tracks keep on going,” he says. “But we got no way to know how long they’ve been there.”
“It can't be that long.”
The deputy puffs out his cheeks. “Through the trees, it’s not real bad,” he says. “The road's a little protected by the forest. But after a mile or so, it goes through a clearing. Snow's been drifting in there, deeper than the hood of this thing.”
Rimes looks off through the failing light. “You're really sure you couldn't make it?”
“That's horrible snow, soft as all hell. I'd be wasting my time.”
She pulls on the cigarette.
Mathis checks the Forest Service map on his passenger seat. “Logging Road 57,” he says. He reads the note attached. “Designated high-clearance-vehicle use only. Six miles long. In poor repair at high elevations...”
“Somebody went up there,” Rimes says.
The deputy turns to look at her out of the driver window. “Even if they did,” he says, “I can’t believe they’d make it all the way back down.”
Whicher sees the group of cabins laid out beyond the ponderosa—a tree-lined basin, a flat expanse of snow and ice.
A man is pulling something toward the cabins. Dragging something. Some kind of sled.
Galen Coburn puts his horse into a canter.
The marshal follows across a glaring field of white.
Coburn turns back in the saddle, shouts at Whicher, “Don't get your horse on the ice...”
The man at the lake drops the line to the sled, he's running now. “Anthony just got in a vehicle,” he calls out.
Whicher reins in his mount, sees fre
sh wheel-marks—churned up snow.
Coburn bring his horse to a halt.
The man runs the last yards to the cabins. “I was out cutting holes,” he says. “I looked up, I saw a vehicle...”
“Jacobs,” the ranch owner says, “this here’s a US Marshal.”
“What vehicle?” Whicher says.
“I didn't see it come in,” the man answers, flushed, “it just appeared. I looked up from cutting a hole in the ice. I saw an SUV. I saw a guy get out. Anthony came over. They were talking. Then somebody else got out.”
Whicher eyes the wheel tracks.
“Next thing you know, Anthony was getting in the back seat, they drove away.”
“How long?” the marshal says.
“Five minutes,” Jacobs says. “The time it's taken me to get across the lake...”
Coburn turns his horse in the blowing snow. “We can follow 'em down the logging road.”
Whicher pins Jacobs with a look. “Was Anthony acting any way strange?” he says. “You think he might’ve known somebody would be coming out?”
The guide only stares back, wordless.
“I can't believe anybody made it up here,” Coburn says.
The marshal thinks of Janice Rimes. He looks at Coburn. “You know how to shoot?”
“What kind of a damn question is that?”
Whicher starts to take out the Ruger to give to him.
“You need a gun?” Jacobs says. “There's a scoped Springfield right in the cabin.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Behind the wheel of the Pathfinder, Belaski checks the rear-view mirror. Anthony is seated in back, the kid's eyes fixed on a spot six inches in front of his face.
So far, he hasn’t asked questions.
Lauren De Luca’s silent in the front passenger seat.
Belaski focuses on the trail—already it’s worse than it was coming up. Beneath the cover of the pines it’s drivable. But where the trees thin, snow has drifted, it’s piled deep.
He steers around a turn in the logging road—light streaking through the canopy of branches. The road is headed out onto open ground, now. He snorts air through his nostrils. A bloom of heat spreads inside.
Last thing to do is bog down.
Momentum. Put on more speed.
An American Bullet Page 12